


Claudius Descending

by Nyanoka



Series: Creature Feature: Into the NZMSverse [2]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Pokemon, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Background Relationships, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Fingering, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Horror Elements, Incest Subtext, Katabasis, M/M, Nipple Play, One-Sided Incest Subtext, One-Sided Mary | Marnie/Nezu | Piers, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Painplay, Scratching, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Species Change, Supernatural Elements, Underage Sex, bildungsroman, biting kink, mild religious blasphemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 28,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24420337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: Not all strangers mean well.
Relationships: Mary | Marnie/Nezu | Piers, Masaru | Victor/Nezu | Piers
Series: Creature Feature: Into the NZMSverse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2088546
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	1. The Jester

**Author's Note:**

> One of the appeals of reading for me is the surprises honestly, and I am in the minority when it comes to fanfics, but I often wish authors tag less to avoid ruining surprises. That's why I take the "Choose Not to Use Archive Warnings" tag so often. It gives a succinct warning for everything but avoids giving away too many things. As a reader and writer personally, it becomes tiresome when I can predict the plot on tags. That is who I am really, but I love the rush of not knowing what's going to happen.
> 
> Though the downside is that it makes it ridiculously hard to appear on AO3 filters (or people's radar in general tbh) if one doesn't use the common tags (all the sex ones, fandom specific tags, etc.). Ah...fanfiction is very freeing in some aspects but on others, it isn't. It is a rather different atmosphere than it was in the 2000s...not inherently bad, but it's less "grab bag" and "variety" sometimes. I don't like to "box" myself into a genre, so I often find difficulty in tagging.
> 
> I'm just not one who enjoys "obvious surprises" or "formulaic" plots. Idk, perhaps I've just grown out of genre fiction? Genre fiction isn't bad, but tastes change as one gets older sometimes. Though, I think this fic's plot is rather obvious, but I am the one who wrote it so hmm...
> 
> I swapped to a more casual style as well since I thought it fit Piers more than the style I use for the "The Year King" and "Chicken Bones." It's not my favorite, but hopefully it isn't too off. I don't care for it personally—I've always been one to idolize styles like Virginia Woolf's or Vladimir Nabokov's tbh—but it fits more than the "whimsical and flowery" tone of some my other works. I am also not going to attempt to understand the European academic system+free tuition because I will miss out on the nuances and mess up somewhere, so pardon me on that. While I would usually do research, I feel that due to Galar being set in an entirely different world, I can have some leeway.
> 
> All chapters have also been completed and will be posted on a regular schedule.

Fucking shit.

Another goddamn bust of a show.

Though perhaps that isn’t quite accurate. Everyone had applauded, and he hadn’t been booed off stage or hit by a thrown tomato. Though as hackneyed as those particular events would have been—people aren’t as outwardly rude as fiction would lead most people to believe—it would have been much more preferred. At least then, there would have been an authentic reaction and not that insipid, overly _polite_ response he had received—thin smiles, the obligatory five seconds worth of applause, and then silence as they returned to their conversation and drinks, ice cubes half-melted and honey-gold alcohol diluted.

Love and hate. As cliché as it is to state—he has heard enough of that trite garbage at university—they aren’t two sides of a coin instead merely being two different states of being. Rather, apathy—politeness mandated by societal norms and a desire to be inoffensive—is their counterpart.

Bland, disgusting, _repulsive_ apathy.

He would prefer to be hated over simply being seen—simply heard and then forgotten for the next amusement and social charade.

It hadn’t even been his own music that he had sung, having been some crooning jazz more fit for the '40s or '50s. It isn’t that he considers himself objectively better—as an artist, he appreciates all forms of the craft—but a disdain for mandates. Much like his distaste for encores, he doesn’t care for being told what to sing, not without his own invitation first anyhow.

Certainly, he had done his best for the setting—Vinny’s Lounge on 7th Street—and for the specifications of the gig, but it, everything from the chosen songs to the pale, yellow lights and the disinterested patrons, had chafed, irritated in a way not unlike wet sand between one’s toes. It isn’t fatal—he isn’t dramatic enough to claim that—but it is wearisome.

Undoubtedly, it is a pretentious sentiment—work is work after all and that particular gig, a call for a temporary lounge singer, had been rather coveted by other amateurs—but he doesn’t feel satisfied.

It isn’t his music nor is it his choice of melody, and as an artist, it burns, pulls at his heart in a way akin to first heartache.

Perhaps he should be satisfied—music is his passion and to be able to profit off of it, even in this manner, is more than most could claim. He has heard of the tales before—demo CD after demo CD thrown into the trash and dreams shattered by blunt declarations of an aspiring singer’s mediocrity—but he doesn’t necessarily want this, nights of singing borrowed tunes and hymns rather than his own creations.

Furthermore, it isn’t a stable gig, nothing he needs to settle into—unscrewing piercings permanently, trading worn jacket and leather for an expensive, ironed suit, and ridding his hair of its now familiar white dye. He doesn’t quite fit into the atmosphere of the lounge anyhow. Even with its relatively modest stylings, nothing like the more popular locations in downtown, and his own appearance changed—metal replaced with retainers, distinctive makeup traded for more natural tones, and hair combed and straight instead of intentionally messy—he is too out of place, not highbrow enough. His accent doesn’t help either, only accentuating his foreignness rather than masking it.

He doesn’t care for the way that his coworkers stare at him or for the slight raise of the eyebrows he sometimes sees.

But still, he must sing as he does now—moving between local gigs and local odd jobs. He doesn’t want to be some trust fund brat reliant on an inheritance—doesn’t want to waste it all on his dream rather than Marnie and her future—but he doesn’t want to be tied down either.

Perhaps it makes him overly pretentious—few artists could claim what he has now, a relatively decent stream of jobs and a rather sizable safety net—but it doesn’t satisfy him, doesn’t arouse him into a fervor.

He doesn’t half-ass his singing of course, but he doesn’t feel the distinctive thrum of passion that comes with artistry and creation.

None of what he sings are his own lyrics or even a part of his genre. Instead, it is only work.

Piers shakes his head. Fuck. He needs to stop thinking about it. Thinking about everything only worsens his mood—he can already feel the beginnings of a migraine—and he doesn’t have any smokes on him. It isn’t a particularly healthy habit—Marnie always gets on him about it—but it does alleviate his stress.

He could always buy some from one of the late-night convenience stores—he has certainly passed enough of them by now, windows almost entirely covered by kitschy, colorful advertisements and store names blinking in gaudy reds, purples, and blues more fit for Unova’s Join Avenue or a casino strip than one of Hammerlocke’s less traveled streets—but he isn’t particularly inclined towards speaking at the moment, too aggravated.

He understands the need for advertising, but to this extent? Who were they advertising to? Rats? The drunken homeless? He sees enough of those on his walks. Hammerlocke may be one of Galar’s premier cities—one formed from a mixture of antiquated architecture and high-rising modernity—but much like any other city, it has its fair share of problems. Perhaps more so than other cities even. Hammerlocke certainly attracts a number of starry-eyed performers and dreaming artists alongside the standard entrepreneurs and nervous university students, fresh from their nests and truly away from their parents for the first time.

Poverty, pollution, among an assortment of other problems yet all hidden underneath a shining exterior of opportunity and welcoming smiles from predatory businessmen eager to take advantage of the naïve.

Stopping briefly, Piers shakes his head again, migraine worsening and not at all helped by the blaring storefront lights, before continuing.

He needs to get home. Walking home from work alone probably isn’t one of his best ideas—he has heard enough lectures from Marnie about it—but it isn’t like Hammerlocke’s crime rates are anywhere near Spikemuth’s, and he has walked home plenty of times in his hometown without trouble. Hammerlocke couldn’t be any worse, and he hasn’t seen anybody else so far, no one that isn’t a bored clerk manning a checkout counter or the occasional customer anyhow.

Most would be asleep or carousing around Hammerlocke’s downtown area—bar-hopping, prostituting, or perhaps simply enjoying the show of lights and prancing drunks—rather than here on some typical street.

He doesn’t really want to call a taxi either, more personal preference than anything else. He isn’t in a rush to get home.

Reaching the last quarter of his walk home, he doesn’t expect any trouble or any interaction at all really, nothing beside the buzz of mid-summer’s insects and the flickering streetlights.

“Excuse me, sir. Can you help me? I’m lost.”

Oh fucking shit. Piers couldn’t quite help but flinch, but who wouldn’t? The question, one near word for word from a horror movie, isn’t one he expects to—or wants to really—hear at this hour, especially from what appears to be a child’s voice, soft and tinny like one of the birds he sometimes hears outside of his window.

At the very least, however, he does see someone when he turns around. He isn’t quite sure what he would do otherwise. The recent ghost stories he’s heard from Gordie don’t help either. Though, much like the voice, the appearance fills him with alarm.

Really, who would expect a young boy to be out alone at eleven at night? On a street like this? It certainly isn’t anywhere near the residential area.

Dressed in an oversized red polo shirt and simple blue jeans, pockets stitched on, with brown loafers, the boy couldn’t be more than eleven, perhaps twelve, at best. The slight shuffling, nervousness, only accentuates his youthful nature and the smallness of his frame.

“Please, sir,” the boy repeats, walking closer before stopping before him. “Can you help me find my way home? I took a wrong turn, and well…I don’t know where I am now.”

The boy’s brow furrows. With his wide-eyed expression and the way his brown hair frames his round cheeks, baby fat not entirely shed yet, he would belong more in a classroom than their current setting, some lonesome street with nary a passerby outside of themselves.

Innocent, obviously distressed, and entirely too young to be out and about at this hour.

Yet strangely, he feels a sense of unease curl in his stomach, a consequence of the oddness of everything. He doesn’t expect to be jumped—anyone planning to would have done so already—and he doubts the boy would pull a knife on him, but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling off.

He doesn’t quite want to stay too long, but still, he couldn’t simply just tell him to leave, not without his conscience interfering.

“Where were you headin’? Like the street name.”

“I-well”—the boy fumbles, words stumbling—“My mom sent me to get cigarettes for her—from Ricky’s. He’s the only one who’ll sell to me, an—”

“Yeah, but where are you _goin’_?”

It is rather rude of him, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling of unease. Instead, he only feels it increase, goosebumps prickling along his arms and sweat already forming upon his palms and the back of his neck. Perhaps it is his paranoia—neither his migraine nor Gordie’s recent interest in Hammerlocke’s urban legends help his mood—but he doesn’t want to stay there for much longer.

“G-Goldenpine Avenue.”

Shit, how far did the kid walk? He knows Ricky’s—he has frequented the store from time to time on his nightly walks, and it isn’t all too far from their current location—but _Goldenpine Avenue_? That would be, at the very least, a half-hour’s walk if they were to only take the marked and well-lit streets rather than cutting through the alleyways.

He doesn’t want to take the alleyways. A grown man romping around with a boy half his age in the dark isn’t the easiest sort of thing to explain if they were to encounter a cop. His appearance certainly wouldn’t help. Even without his piercings and his makeup, he isn’t the friendliest-looking person in Hammerlocke.

The boy continues, “You don’t have to go with me all the way if you don’t want to—halfway or even just a quarter would be a big help. I just need help finding my way back to at least Cherry Hill Road, and I’ll be fine after that. I usually cut through the alleys, but with the recent stream of muggings…”

He shuffles again, clearly uncomfortable. Around them, the streetlights continue to flicker, shadows lengthening—dark figures dancing along the walls, upon the cars, and on the concrete—and only adding to his unease.

“I mean, I’d really appreciate it if you went with me,” the boy chatters, voice naturally high. “I’m really bad with directions, and my mom’s gonna worry if I’m late.”

Piers almost snorts at that, but he manages to stop himself. Considering the boy’s current situation, he doubts his mother is the sort to care, or perhaps she is the anal sort—the mother who only cares about her arbitrary standards and her own comfort.

He almost opens his mouth to reply, but he quickly stops himself—agreement stilling on the tip of his tongue and dread heavier now. Nothing should make him feel as he does now, but he couldn’t quite still his emotions.

Really, what should he be afraid of? As long as they kept to the main roads, nothing would go wrong.

“I can’t go with you,” Piers says finally, stopping the boy’s chatter. “But I can give you directions.”

“R-really?” The boy’s smile falters, nervousness returning fully. “I really don’t know my way around these parts, and it’s rather dark now.”

Piers feels a bit of guilt sting at his heart, but he nods. With how the streetlights blink, the boy’s skin is pale, pallid even—a trick of the lighting. He assumes he looks much the same. Spikemuth isn’t the sunniest place in Galar, and his reclusive nature hasn’t changed all too much since his move to Hammerlocke.

Hell, it’s surprising that the boy had even asked him for help, but it isn’t like he had many options what with the empty streets.

“Please, sir, can you walk with me?” A nervous laugh then. “I’m really bad with directions—my mom says I can’t find my way out of a wet paper bag—and I, well”—he shifts again, shuffling—“I just don’t really feel comfortable walking by myself out here.”

“Can you call your mom to pick you up? Or a friend maybe? I can loan you my phone.”

He doesn’t have much battery left—roughly twelve percent left last he checked—but it would be more than enough for a call.

The boy’s eyes widen again.

“N-no”—he shakes his head—“my mom wouldn’t like that. She doesn’t like to be woken up at this hour, not by call anyhow, and well, I don’t have many friends.” He blushes at that. “No one who’d be up anyway. Really, can you walk with me for just a little bit?”

Piers could sympathize with that—his parents were much the same, disinterested and aloof outside of their own whims—but he couldn’t quite help but feel annoyance seep in as well. Certainly, he understands the boy’s hesitation, but it isn’t like the directions would be difficult. One would only need to walk further down to Maple Street, take a left at the third light, and two more rights to reach Cherry Hill.

Certainly, it would be a desolate road—much more so than their current one, less lights and less storefront cameras—but it is the boy’s choice after all.

He understands the fear that comes with the boy’s age, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to walk with him—dread only thickening at the thought.

“Please, sir. I…really don’t feel comfortable walking alone tonight.”

Piers feels his heart soften. Shit. He really couldn’t leave the boy alone, not with how he stares at him—round, brown eyes wide and with his body shaking slightly. As morbid—strange—as it is to say, it's overly cute, akin to a puppy spooked by a thunderstorm.

“I can call you a taxi,” Piers says finally. It would lighten his wallet, but it is a good compromise he thinks.

“No!” The boy shakes his head again. “I-I can’t pay for that. I’m supposed to give my mom her change back.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll pay for it.”

“I can’t take your money!” Piers hadn’t expected the boy to shout, but he feels his heart soften further at the boy’s next statement, half-mumbled and eyes shifting elsewhere.

I-I…can’t pay you back.”

Ah shit. Piers feels himself reach into his pocket before pulling out his wallet. He doesn’t really carry much in it normally—no debit or credit cards, only his license and a few twenties mixed in with a ten and a few ones—but he couldn’t simply leave him be. He quickly digs out a few bills. With his other hand, Piers reaches over and ruffles the boy’s hair.

“Don’t worry about”—shit, the kid’s mom must be an asshole if a simple touch causes him to flinch like that—“You don’t need to pay me back.”

The look in the boy’s eyes is rather odd, wariness mixed with pensiveness, but Piers dismisses it readily enough. They are strangers after all. Two hundred forty-one dollars isn’t exactly a small amount—it’s all he has on him, a combination of his own funds and tonight’s tips—but it would cover the fare easily enough with plenty left over. Perhaps the boy could buy a hat as well. Even in summer, Galar is a rather cold place at night, and the boy’s skin had been cool to the touch, near-chilly even.

“Keep the rest for yourself,” Piers interrupts as the boy opens his mouth. “Somewhere safe. Don’t give it to your mom. It’s for you.” After a moment of thought, he adds, “Try spendin’ it responsibly.”

Eleven-year-olds aren’t the most responsible of individuals, but he couldn’t exactly take it back nor does he want to. He hadn’t grown up poor, but he could, at the very least, understand irresponsible parents.

“I”—the boy closes his mouth, chewing on his lower lip, before speaking again—“Thank you.”

“Mmhmm.” Piers nods. “So, can I call you the cab? Don’t have much battery left. We’ve been talkin’ for like twenty minutes so far, and my phone’s almost dead.”

Mercifully, the boy doesn’t object this time. Piers still couldn’t quite understand the look in his eyes—wary, pensive, and mixed with something he couldn’t quite place—but at the very least, his own conscience would ease up.

When the taxi arrives—Piers makes sure it’s the correct taxi and not something more unscrupulous—he helps the boy in. Thankfully, the taxi driver, a frizzy haired woman in her thirties, doesn’t ask too many questions, only for the address and the fare.

It doesn’t take long for the taxi to speed off. Much like him, the woman is most likely in a hurry to finish her shift and return home.

“Hmm,” Piers mumbles to himself. “I didn’t get his name.”

It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of themes—they probably wouldn’t meet again all things considering—but he is a bit curious.

Piers shrugs. Whatever. He should focus on getting home. Marnie would still be awake most likely—she has her projects for her honors classes to work on—and Raihan never sleeps before 3 a.m.

Furthermore, he hasn’t eaten yet, and he is rather peckish.

The sooner he got home, the sooner he could have dinner and an ibuprofen.


	2. The Magician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'll try for 1 or 2 chapters per week since that helps to keep inboxes relatively clean. Dunno what I want for my next project...want to start while I still have a buffer of chapters...

Hammerlocke hadn’t been his first choice for a move, but it had been the most obvious.

As one of Galar’s premier cities—arguably only outdone by Wyndon and its festivities—and as a center for business and various other industries, Hammerlocke would be the best choice. Certainly Wyndon draws more entertainers and entrepreneurs overall by virtue of its newness and the financial backing from Macro Cosmos, but Hammerlocke has its own unique strengths.

For one, the presence of the centuries-old and selective Hammerlocke University alongside their own ancestral home would be a boon for Marnie. He doesn’t expect to be unable to pay tuition—their parents had left them a rather sizable fortune, and Marnie herself already has a few scholarships secured—but he doesn’t want her to be in an unfamiliar city alone for her first semester. Living here now would help her to familiarize herself with the city.

Secondly, Hammerlocke itself is only a three hours’ drive from Spikemuth. Sentimental perhaps, but Piers prefers to be within driving distance of his hometown. Spikemuth isn’t the largest or safest city—hell, it’s classified as a town officially rather than as a city, and outside of its seedy reputation and its colorful graffiti, it isn’t known for much else—but there is a certain comfort in knowing he could always return home without needing a flight or an entire day’s or two’s drive.

Finally, he himself is more familiar with Hammerlocke than Wyndon, a consequence of his relatively brief enrollment at Hammerlocke University.

Four semesters as a biochemistry major—a full two years—and he had fucking hated every moment of it. He hadn’t been bad at it. The general requirements had been easy enough—even Chemistry II, the general “weed-out” class, hadn’t been hard for him—but it simply hadn’t been his passion.

“Play your music as a hobby,” his mother had said while his father nodded along. “What can you earn with that sort of thing anyway? We always need doctors and scientists. Musicians? We have enough of those already—too many artsy types roaming around.”

Fuck. Perhaps it makes him a brat—some useless, idealistic simpleton more focused on fantasy than practicality—but he doesn’t want to be stuck in some lab or hospital until retirement and then shoved into a nursing home by some distant relative from some country he’s never heard of.

He doesn’t want to wait for death—that would be what it would be for him, a shitty life with little meaning for himself—and he doesn’t have time to wait.

He doesn’t have time to put off his dreams, and thus, he, after hours of contemplation, had dropped out.

It wasn’t like his grades already _weren’t_ dropping, a consequence of dissatisfaction and disinterest rather than any genuine difficulty. He had gotten enough curt letters, emails, and calls from his parents about that by then.

“Not befit of our legacy,” all of them had read. Of course, appearance would be the first thing they had focused on. They were alumni, notable donors and sweethearts who had met during their time at university.

It wouldn’t do for their eldest son to be a dropout, a “delinquent” as they had so succinctly put it, never mind his age. Perhaps they had been right—he certainly looks the part—but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not entirely anyhow.

Nonetheless, his refusal to leave had been the last straw, the rift that had damaged their relationship irreparably until their untimely deaths. He’s still surprised that he had been included in the wills, though perhaps there had been some good will left between them. He had expected to be named Marnie’s guardian—they are related after all, and his parents had known him as a reliable, if wayward, son—but he hadn’t expected to receive as much as he had at the reading.

Though the proceedings themselves hadn’t exactly been a straightforward affair.

“Foul play.” Piers frowns at that memory. Why would he kill his parents? Certainly, they hadn’t left on the greatest of terms, but he wouldn’t kill them. That is rather extreme, and he hadn’t even known he had been included in their wills. Furthermore, _how_ would he kill them? He had been staying with Joshua in Spikemuth. He hadn’t even been in Hammerlocke at the time of the murders, and he wouldn’t have been able to hire an assassin, as ridiculous and movie-esque as that idea is. How would he have been able to afford it? Unlike what the movies portray, hiring an assassin isn’t the easiest endeavor.

He wouldn’t kill them in public if he actually had been the culprit. Really, why would he kill them on the way home from a dinner party? Would it not make more sense for him to kill them in their home or at the very least, in a place where there were less bystanders?

The manner of death is rather strange as well—bodies torn apart rather than simply shot or stabbed as one would expect of a mugger or he himself.

He doesn’t enjoy speculating on his parents’ deaths—he doesn’t dislike them that much—but he hadn’t enjoyed the investigation either. Two prominent socialites dying in the same night with an estranged son isn’t exactly unsuspicious.

As rocky as that particular year had been, he had eventually been able to prove his innocence—a combination of the testimonies from his friends and Marnie, his, at the time, dwindling bank account balance, and a decent lawyer.

Furthermore, the manner of death had been more akin to an animal attack than anything capable by a human. That had been favorable—as morbid as it is to say—for him as well.

All in all, he hadn’t been a reasonable choice despite initial assumptions. The potential motive had been there, but nothing else had lined up.

Piers shakes his head. He doesn’t really want to think on it any further. Despite their falling out, he hadn’t hated his parents enough to wish for their deaths especially in such a gruesome manner.

He hadn’t seen the bodies, but the closed casket funeral had implied enough.

Another shake of the head before he taps his fingers against his desk. Really, how long is Gordie going to take? He doesn’t expect him to specifically cater to his schedule to the minute—as a prominent social influencer, Gordie would be busy—but some promptness is expected when one arranges a meeting.

It is a rather lonesome chat tonight, one consisting of only himself and Gordie. It isn’t quite like high school or college anymore. Most of their friends are too busy with their own lives—Leon studying abroad and still in class because of time zone differences, Sonia with her internship and PhD program to consider, Raihan with his art commissions, and so forth.

It isn’t that they themselves aren’t busy, but their respective jobs lend better to these sort of meetups, late night and haphazardly planned.

Thankfully, after a few more minutes—silence accompanied by the hums of both his ceiling fan and his laptop—he hears the familiar ping of a video chat request which he promptly accepts.

It isn’t the most animated conversation, nothing like when they’re all together, but it isn’t the most morose either. They still joke, laugh, and shoot the shit—conversation drifting from daily life to hobbies to work.

Personally, Piers isn’t quite sure how Gordie deals with the more aggravating aspects of his job—inane and intentionally inflammatory comments on his videos and streams, socializing with others and acquiring brand deals, and so forth—but Gordie has always been rather sociable and friendly, a natural extrovert. Really, outside of himself, everyone in their group does rather well with other people.

It isn’t that he hates people—he’s fairly neutral on them overall—or that he’s a shut-in, but he doesn’t quite find himself drawn to crowds and social gatherings as they are, not outside of concerts and music anyhow.

Nonetheless, Gordie’s work is rather interesting to hear about, more so than his own job anyway. He doubts Gordie would be interested in the intricacies of drunks, in the animals—mainly rats with the occasional dog or cat—he sees on his walks to work and on his return home, or in the songs he sings, old hits from decades before.

It isn’t that Gordie’s inconsiderate, but objectively, Gordie’s work is substantively more interesting—unique even—in comparison to his. One could see drunks anywhere and at any time in the world.

Travel blogging and restaurant reviews mixed in with his recent interest in urban legends and ghost stories—urban exploration combined with sometimes exaggerated screaming and the occasional debunking.

Really, hearing about Kanto and Johto and their urban legends is much more interesting than his own current line of work. Piers doesn’t especially believe in the stories like Gordie does, but he doesn’t mind learning about them.

It keeps the conversation moving anyhow. He prefers that over the silence of his bedroom.

“…I’m going to visit Stow-on-Side next since Bea wants to collab. There’s supposed to be a ghost—Allister’s his name according to her—haunting the old stadium there. He’s supposed to be really active. He’s the reason why they haven’t torn down the place yet. Everyone gets sick when they try, or the machinery breaks down,” Gordie rambles. “It’ll be fun after Pallet Town. Didn’t really get a lot of good footage there or in New Bark Town. No fox spirits or anything. Did meet some of my fans there though. Cute kids, but…”

Piers nods along. He doesn’t really understand Gordie’s fixation on the kids’ contact lenses—red and yellow contacts aren’t the strangest ones out there—compared to their names. Really, Red and Gold? He certainly understands why they would wear colored lenses. He’d have a complex too if his parents named him after colors.

Though, he doesn’t quite understand Gordie’s interest in pursuing Allister. He knows bits of Stow-on-Side’s legends from Bea and of Allister himself. More specifically, he knows of the various accidents and deaths purportedly associated with the boy. Really, if Gordie truly believes in those stories, why would he seek out someone that dangerous?

It doesn’t make sense, but there is a thrill in it, he supposes. Adrenaline junkies and all.

“…anyways, how’s work been for you? Anything interesting happen? I know Hammerlocke’s currently experiencing a string of muggings. You alright over there?”

“Mmhmm. Nothin’ as bad as Spikemuth,” Piers replies. “Nothin’ interesting at work either. Unless you wanna hear about drunks and oldies tunes? Vinny doesn’t let me sing anythin’ released less than fifty years ago.”

Piers pauses for a moment, having remembered something.

“Though…I did meet a kid on the way home ‘bout a week and a half ago. Looked ‘bout eleven and kept askin’ me to help him get back home—ya know, walk with him. Called him a taxi instead since his house was ‘bout a thirty-minute walk.”

Piers doesn’t mention the dread he had felt then. He doesn’t want to encourage Gordie’s nonsense more than necessary.

“Really? Do you think he was a ghost? Or maybe a demon?”

Piers scoffs. “Gordie, do you think ghosts get into taxis? Or a demon for that matter?”

Well, no,” Gordie admits. “But an eleven-year-old out that late and alone? That’s a bit weird, don’t you think? And Hammerlocke’s history is rather varied.” He pauses for a moment. “I mean the alternative…do you think he was, you know?”

Gordie makes a particularly vulgar motion with his hand, fingers curled and swiftly moving up and down.

“Ugh”—Piers’s lips curl in disgust—“You’ve been watchin’ too many movies again. No, I don’t think he was that. His mom sent him to get cigarettes, and the only store that’ll sell to him was around there.”

“Oh,” Gordie nods sympathetically. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah, couldn’t really help him all too much either. Most I could do was give him some money. Told him to keep it a secret from his mom.”

“At least you did something. Did you at least get his name?”

Piers shakes his head. “Nah. Forgot to ask since it was late, and I had a migraine. It slipped my mind.”

“Ah.”

A silence descends on them, mildly awkward and heavy.

“So…what kind of songs do you sing? Anything my mom would know?”

Still rather awkward, but Piers appreciates the attempt to lighten the mood.

“Probably. My boss had me learn ‘bout fifty songs before he’d hire me, and he still keeps sendin’ me more. Pretty shitty of him considerin’ this is a temporary gig until Janet recovers from her illness, and…”

The mood doesn’t quite return to what it was before, but at the very least, Gordie listens to his complaining. As uninteresting as it is, it does make him feel a bit better.

It is, at the very least, better than speculating on an eleven-year-old’s abuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, I've never been fond of characters who are "100% correct." It's not a very traditional "hero" but we've been moving away from the "Classical Hero" archetype for a long time. I wouldn't call Piers a "true" unreliable narrator, but I wouldn't take everything at 100% factual considering everything is filtered through his eyes. Even with the concept of katabasis present in this work, it's not a "traditional" one in the true sense of the word...but I was reading some Modern+Postmodern works (bunch of Odyssean influences like in Ellison's Invisible Man and Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway and themes of perception there if you wish to pursue the topic; rather unsurprising if you consider the time period), so I wanted to have some fun with my writing.
> 
> I do have some ideas for what I want to do for my next project though, but it's hard to decide since each one will challenge me in different ways...I guess I'll figure it out once I cleanse my palate a bit. Been watching too many Netflix shows lately, and I gotta go back to clearing my reading list...I gotta finish Joyce, the rest of China's four great novels, and all that...I just know it'll be problematic because that's way more interesting to me than something "clean and marketable."
> 
> As an aside, Joshua isn't actually an OC. He's one of the Team Yell members you meet at Spikemuth.


	3. The High Priestess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't actually planning to post a chapter today, but I managed to roll Skadi on my FGO NA account, so I'm rather happy. First multi (alongside my final Nitocris for an NP5), and my wallet is safe+I have a lot of SQ left now...I always have a lot of luck with Celtic servants tbh (well except Fionn which I'm still salty about 2 years later...Bryn spook...). Might go in on the Babylonia split focus since I need 2 more copies for NP5 Enkidu...
> 
> Fairly short chapter imo, but I didn't like how it looked if I posted this and the next section together.

“So, how’d your commissions go?” Piers asks over breakfast the next day. Today’s breakfast—egg sandwiches, bacon, and pancakes with honey picked up from a fast food joint—isn’t particularly healthy, but Piers isn’t going to decline free food. It would rude given that Raihan had been considerate enough to buy it alongside his own meal. By the dark circles underneath his eyes and his frequent yawning, Raihan hadn’t slept at all either.

Raihan makes a noncommittal hum before replying, “So-so. I have about four weeks left to finish them all.” He frowns then. “Not really satisfied with how the boobs came out on one of them. I mean, he’s paying me to give her triple N’s, but the proportions are all off, and the dick on the other one? I had to look at so many dog dicks for it. I’m pretty sure I got added to a watchlist too. Really, why are all my commissioners like this?”

Piers unwraps his egg sandwich, yellow paper crinkling. “You’re just upset no one commissioned you for _your_ kinks this time. Not everyone’s into old men or futa boys, you know? Why don’t you just lock your art behind a subscription or do some modelin’ on the side? You already have a massive followin’ online, and Nessa’s asked you before to model with her. Don’t even gotta stop commissions. Just do less of them.”

Raihan hums and spears a bit of pancake onto his fork. “It’s boring to draw only what I like, and I got to clear up my schedule before I think about modeling.”

Overly contradictory and a bit senseless, but Piers doesn’t expect anything else. After months of Raihan boarding with them as a housemate and years of knowing the other man, he’s come to expect some quirks—bizarrely contrarian nature included.

Perhaps their conversation is too vulgar for breakfast as well, but it isn’t like Marnie’s finished her business in the bathroom yet. They could shoot the shit for a little bit longer. Silly maybe—Marnie is seventeen now, and she isn’t an overly sensitive girl when it comes to these sorts of subjects—but he has always doted on her, reeling in his worse traits and jokes around her.

It is simply who he is.

“What about you?” Raihan asks inbetween chewing. “Haven’t you thought about sending in more of your music or collabing with Gordie? I know you’ve been streaming your stuff online, but it doesn’t hurt to get a boost from a popular channel.”

“I don’t want them to only like my music because of Gordie,” Piers replies. His sandwich is a bit cold, egg rubbery and biscuit halves crumbly, but he doesn’t complain. Raihan isn’t an overly picky eater and knowing him, he had most likely picked it up hours earlier during one of his breaks—a quick drive to stretch his limbs and to clear his head—and forgotten about it on the kitchen counter soon after returning home.

Raihan, despite his prodigal nature when it comes to color theory and shapes and networking, is rather absentminded in other matters. Though, it isn’t like he would have enjoyed being woken up at 4 a.m. or some other ungodly hour for a two-dollar egg sandwich.

Raihan frowns. “Don’t be so traditional, Piers. A lot of it is about networking nowadays, and besides, your music’s _good_. You’ll get some genuine fans.”

Piers doesn’t reply instead choosing to bite into his sandwich.

“Really, think about it.” He shakes his head. “Gordie doesn’t advertise bullshit he doesn’t like, and he _likes_ your music. He wouldn’t mind at all if you ask. Anyways, how’s work? Anything interesting?”

“Same shit as always—drunks and oldies tunes.”

He doesn’t mention his meeting with the boy. After Gordie’s reaction, he doesn’t particularly want to explain it again. It’s simply too early in the day for that.

“Still walking home?” Another frown when Piers nods. “Stop cheaping out and get a taxi. You’re gonna get mugged one day. Moreover, haven’t you been watching the news? A bunch of people are disappearing now. Hell, someone disappeared this morning—some lady. Disappeared without a trace, and they found her taxi empty somewhere on Route 7. Dashcam didn’t even show anything weird happening. The thing cut out for a few minutes, and she was gone when it turned back on.”

Piers snorts. “A lady disappears while drivin’ a taxi, and you want me to get in one?”

“It’s better than just walking alone in the dark,” Raihan retorts. “Really, just because Hammerlocke has a lower crime rate doesn’t mean you should push your luck. I know you like to clear your head with your walks, but think about your safety first.”

“I am.”

Raihan’s brow furrows. “Really, I mean it. Bring some pepper spray or at the very least, a pocketknife with you. We have some in the drawer besides the linen closet.” He pauses for a moment. “Marnie would be more at ease if you did. You know how she worries.”

Piers sighs. He couldn’t really argue against that. “Fine. I will. I’ll take it with me tonight.”

“Good.” Raihan nods, satisfied.

“Somethin’ happen? I heard my name.” Marnie pulls out the chair next to Piers and sits.

“Just telling your brother to stop being an idiot. He’s still walking home alone without any protection. Won’t take a taxi either.”

“Ah,” Marnie nods. “he can be stubborn.”

"I have my phone, and I’m gonna take pepper spray with me,” Piers protests. He doesn’t particularly want to be ganged up on this early in the morning. “I’m not cuttin’ through the alleys or anythin’. I’m takin’ well-lit roads.”

“That’s not gonna stop you from being stabbed,” Raihan says before looking towards Marnie. “Bought you some breakfast if you wanna reheat it up. It’s on the counter.”

“Thanks. I’ll eat it in a bit.”

Raihan looks back towards Piers. “Really, think about it. Taxi fare doesn’t cost that much. Less than a hospital bill anyway.”

“Mmhmm.” It isn’t a true reply, but thankfully, Raihan doesn’t push it any further.

Instead, Raihan only yawns once more, white teeth showing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Raihan is the most well adjusted person in the Adult Trio+Sonia tbh. Idk why. He just looks like someone who has everything put together.


	4. The Empress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chugging along...about done with my next oneshot/twoshot...just a little bit more, and I can post that...

Piers doesn’t quite know how to feel about being let out early—sun nearly set and a consequence of the owner’s anniversary. Really, he couldn’t have told him before he arrived? Fucking inconsiderate asshole.

Why let him come if they weren’t going to have music tonight?

Certainly, he enjoys the extra free time, but the lack of coordination irritates him, makes him want to smoke. Fumbling at his back pocket, Piers curses, voice noticeably loud in the nearly deserted street. Shit. He forgot his pack of cigarettes at home, probably left them on the table while searching for the pepper spray. He had been rushing then, nearly late for work.

Wholly irritating.

Feeling that familiar gnawing in the back of his throat, Piers curses once more. He couldn’t quite wait this time. It would be another fifteen minutes before he arrives home, and with his own worsening mood, the desire for a cigarette and its familiar, warm smoke only grows.

There isn’t quite a buzz to it anymore, no contentedness or euphoria from the nicotine like the first month when he began smoking, but he couldn’t quite stop. As bad as he knows it is and despite Marnie’s pestering, smoking is simply second habit to him now—consistent, familiar, and calming in a way akin to a childhood friend.

Albeit, the childhood friend who turned into a drug dealer in high school and then into a loan shark in college, but it is familiar, nonetheless. Piers couldn’t quite function without a smoke nowadays.

Thankfully, he’s still near the shops. He wouldn’t have to backtrack or take a different, alternate route home and to one of the seedier and less well-lit roads for a pack.

Piers picks the first shop he sees—Ricky’s. It isn’t the cheapest store on the block—Ricky’s overprices really—but it is the closest one. He doesn’t mind spending another dollar or two on a pack tonight, and rather fortunately, he hadn’t forgotten his lighter too.

The wind chimes ring overhead as Piers shuffles into the shop. Ricky’s isn’t the cleanest or most organized place—more of the opposite really with its spotted flooring, cracked glass doors, and wire shelves lined haphazardly with colorful bags of chips, boxes of candy, and packets of dried meat and pre-wrapped taffy—but he doesn’t plan to stay long.

Though, he couldn’t quite hide his surprise when he glances over at the counter.

Piers expects to see Hop—he knows that he works part-time here for extra pocket money and to pay for his university textbooks—but he doesn’t expect to see the boy from two weeks ago. By his expression, eyes wide, and the way his voice stops mid-sentence, he hadn’t expected to meet again either.

Really, how is he supposed to address him? He couldn’t simply call out to him—he doesn’t know his name and simply calling him “boy” would be overly strange—but he couldn’t remain silent either. It would be rude, and he is rather curious about the boy’s wellbeing. Perhaps it is his own brotherly nature at play—the kid’s younger than Marnie by over half a decade and wandering about alone—but the idea of ignoring him, pretending that he hadn’t recognized him, doesn’t quite settle right with him.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to ponder much longer as the boy calls out to him, conversation with Hop having paused.

“Oh, sir! I didn’t think we’d meet again.” The boy shuffles again, fingers playing at and readjusting his shirt’s collar—a nervous habit most likely. Idly, Piers notes how long his nails are. Really, his mother couldn’t even take a few minutes to trim her son’s nails?

“Mmhmm.” How awkward, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to directly ask on his wellbeing. Really, they don’t know each other all too well, and the boy isn’t an adult. Would it be too odd, creepy perhaps, to ask? It isn’t quite like the meaningless platitudes—the “How are you?’ followed by trite, shallow questions on day-to-day life—he sometimes finds himself faced with or even spewing himself.

They don’t know each other all too well—meeting in the dark on a desolate street wouldn’t help his case at all—and there is no guise of social necessity, no politeness needed.

He has never been the most socially adept person around in all honesty.

Thankfully, the boy continues for him, chattering and fingers still tugging lightly at his collar.

“How are you doing? Thank you for helping me the other day. I don’t know how I would have gotten home otherwise. I’m really bad with directions an—”

His chittering continues, only stopping when Piers holds a hand up. He isn’t in a rush home today, but he doesn’t want to stay there for hours. While he is rather curious about the boy, he had come in for cigarettes, not an hours long exposition.

At the very least, he doesn’t feel the same dread that he had during their first meeting.

“I’m doin’ fine.” The boy perks up at that, clearly happy. “A bit irritated because Vinny didn’t tell me I’d be gettin’ out early, but fine. Yourself?”

“Pretty good! My mom wants me home early today to help with supper, so I can’t really stay all too long—I was actually almost done talking with Mr. Hop anyway—but it was nice seeing you again!”

It is a bit strange how easily the boy shifts between mood—chattery one moment and in a hurry the next—but Piers attributes it to his youth. Most kids couldn’t quite sit still or keep to one subject.

Though, he couldn’t quite stop himself from asking, curiosity still alight.

“What’s your name?” Piers asks moments after the boy bids Hop a quick farewell. “If you don’t mind me askin’. I didn’t get it last time.”

The boy pauses, eyes once again that strange mixture of wariness and thoughtfulness before it quickly disappears.

“My name is Victor.”

Piers nods. Victor. Strong name. He doesn’t personally know any Victors, nothing outside of mere passing or from old classic novels like _Frankenstein_ and long-dead authors like Victor Hugo, but it is a nice name in his opinion—simple to say yet not overly common or overly peculiar, something that would draw mockery.

“Piers.” At Victor’s expression, head tilted and eyes noticeably confused, he clarifies, “My name is Piers.”

“Oh!” Piers hears Victor mumble his name, tongue curling and still unused to the syllables. He isn’t particularly offended. His name isn’t the most common one in the world by a long shot—a bit antiquated—but it is better than being named after a color he thinks.

But still, it—Victor’s look of concentration—is rather cute, brow furrowed and brown eyes narrowing, lost in thought. With the way his hair falls, soft with bangs fluffed up and akin to a chick’s down, and the roundness of his cheeks combined with his expression, Victor is cute, akin to one of those baby animals from the viral videos Raihan sometimes shows him.

He couldn’t quite help himself then, hand reaching out to ruffle Victor’s hair.

“Ah, sorry.” Piers retracts his hand. He knows Victor isn’t one for contact—the boy had recoiled again—but he hadn’t expected such a strong reaction. “Couldn’t quite help myself. I have a younger sister, and I used to do the same to her—force of habit.”

Victor shakes his head, and Piers notices the same expression of earlier—wariness and pensiveness mixed with a certain oddness—before it quickly disappears again. If he hadn’t been focused on Victor’s face, he doubts he would have noticed it. Though, he doesn’t quite know what to think about the light flush that now adorns Victor’s cheeks.

Strange kid really.

“It’s fine!” Victor laughs, light and nervous. “I just wasn’t expecting it. Really, I do have to go now, Mr. Piers. My mom’s expecting me home soon, and I don’t wanna keep her waiting.”

Another farewell leaves Victor’s lips before he rushes out the door, chime signaling his exit.

“You’ve met him before?”

“On one of my walks. He was lost,” Piers replies. He doesn’t blame Hop for being curious. Nothing about them would indicate any prior familiarity.

“Ah,” Hop nods. “Victor gets lost pretty easily. He always comes in here from time to time.”

He leans forward on the counter. “Really, it’s been like a year, and he hasn’t learned the roads yet. He’s almost as bad as my brother when it comes to directions.” Hop amends himself, “I mean he’s not all too old—shouldn’t even be out here alone—but you’d think he’d know his way around already, you know?”

“A year?”

“Yeah, a year. You can always find Victor roaming around this area ‘round sunset and after.” Hop frowns. “I think he just doesn’t want to stay home.”

Hop doesn’t quite say it, but the implications are clear enough.

“I’ve tried helping him out a few times—a few free snacks or some pocket money here and there—but…I can’t do much else. I don’t have enough information or evidence to make a report.”

Piers nods before speaking, “Mmhmm. How’s your brother doing?”

It is a bit of a clumsy attempt to shift the conversation, but they’re both rather uncomfortable now with the subject matter. It isn’t like they could do much about it anyhow.

Though, Piers hadn’t expected Hop’s frown to deepen.

“Not good. He got attacked outside of his dorm room by some animal last night—large one at that if the bite marks are anything to go by—and I’m supposed to be flying out tomorrow night to visit him. He’s in the hospital right now with a heavy fever.”

“Oh shit. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Hop shakes his head. “The doctors say he’s not going to lose anything. They just need to keep him under watch for a few days while the fever subsides. Really though, I know Veilstone’s a rather strange place, but what animal goes that deep into a city on a full moon? And to a university campus at that? Aren’t animals supposed to keep away from cities?”

Another shake of the head before Hop continues, “So, what’d you need today? Cigarettes?”

“Yeah, shorts please.” Piers points to the red-topped box in the case behind Hop. He doesn’t really need a carton at the moment even if it would be cheaper in the long run. Furthermore, it would be unwieldly to carry around. “Marnie gets on me about this, but I can’t really stop—too used to it.”

Hop nods before unlocking the case and retrieving the pack. He places it on the counter and rings it up.

The transaction is a rather silent affair, but really, what else could he expect? After their choice of conversation topics and Hop’s own worries—he and his brother are rather close—it would be inconsiderate to speak, to change topics to something more lighthearted.

He merely thanks Hop afterwards and leaves soon after, wind chimes ringing once more and plastic wrap torn open.

It isn’t the healthiest habit, but he couldn’t help it. There is a familiarity in the action. As cliché as it is to say, Piers couldn’t quite think—couldn’t quite focus without one in his hand and smoke in his lungs—at times without it.

Breath in, blow out—faint white smoke drifting—and repeat until only the filter is left.

Repetitive and familiar and comforting.

Though, even with the warmth of his cigarette, Piers couldn’t quite help but shudder, goosebumps forming once more on his arms as he feels the distinctive pinpricks of watching eyes and looming dread. Looking around doesn’t help much either. He doesn’t see anyone else on the streets nor does he see anyone in the upper windows of the nearby buildings. Hell, most of the curtains are drawn.

There is simply nothing, no one besides him and the sour, acidic smell of burning paper and tobacco.

Unnerving, entirely unnerving.

Glancing around once more and patting the inside of his jacket—good, he hadn’t dropped his pepper spray—Piers then promptly quickens his pace, posture tight and guarded. He doesn’t want to stay much longer, not long enough to discover the source of his unease.

The feeling never quite goes away even as he reaches his front door, hands fumbling for the house key and cigarette almost fully burned.

Even when the door closes behind him with a thump and the lock turns, clicking into place, Piers couldn’t quite shake away his dread.

Instead, he only feels it looming, prickling and nipping at his thoughts even as he goes to bed hours later.

Despite his best efforts, it is a sleepless night filled with tossing and turning and a bed that is all too warm—a consequence of his own unease and the sheets themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Piers's personal issues are a rather prevalent theme in this I think. It's in how he approaches everything and the world and in his habits. The whole "Katabasis" in all or nearly all meanings of the word. Also pay no mind to the final chapter count please...everything's done, I'm just still deciding on how to split it all...


	5. The Emperor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of these cards should be reversed honestly (in reference to the chapter titles), but I decided to keep them as is since it keeps structure.

Piers couldn’t quite explain the unease, trepidation, he feels nowadays, the slight chill that follows him and clings at his skin—akin to sewing needles weaving and pricking fingertips—and the feeling of being watch. He tries closing the curtains first of course, but it doesn’t help all too much. Even an herbal tea before bed, Marnie’s recommendation, doesn’t ease his restlessness.

He couldn’t quite sleep anymore, not without feeling a faint sense of dread, one only accentuated by his own worries: uncertainty about the future and insufficiency and aggrievances stemming from daily life.

He blames Gordie for it naturally, not for his worries—that would be ridiculous—but for his increasing paranoia. Months of ghost stories, urban legends, and wives’ tales would do that to anyone, and those sorts of stories had only increased in the recent weeks, a consequence of his recent visit to Stow-on-Side.

Gordie hadn’t found anything substantial at Stow-on-Side, nothing that couldn’t be explained as the mischief of the local kids anyhow, but that hadn’t deterred him. Rather, it had only incentivized him further.

It isn’t a matter of a lack in oddities—Stow-on-Side has plenty of those—but a matter of realism. Simply put, most paranormal occurrences could be explained away as a disruption in the electromagnetic field, a settling house, or even simpler, the work of a rat or roach infestation. That’s what he tells Gordie anyhow, not that the other man believes him. It only leads to a number of arguments, none too serious but all always ending in an agreement to disagree.

On the town itself, Stow-on-Side isn’t particularly small or particularly unknown—its flea market always draws a plethora of visitors—but it is, in all sense of the word, a town in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere.

No major attractions outside of the flea market, the old stadium—a safety hazard turned hazing ritual—and the occasional visiting circus. They have a variety of restaurants of course, but those don’t quite count as entertainment, not for anyone under the age of forty anyhow.

As a town surrounded by mostly sand, rocks, and cactuses, most entrepreneurs outside of the mining industry wouldn’t want to invest into the area. The few attempts to tear down the stadium for something newer and more marketable have always ended in failure—the work of Allister apparently.

Personally, he thinks it’s just poor luck and a natural consequence of the environment itself. Desert soil combined with wildly swinging temperatures doesn’t make for the safest or easiest endeavor.

But nonetheless, the strangeness of Gordie and Bea’s visit—creaking walls, flittering shadows, and the occasional noise, loud and thumping like a heartbeat—could be blamed on the age of the stadium and on the locals themselves. He knows what bored townsfolk do when met with visiting tourists, production crews, and streamers. In his teens, he had done much of the same when he had still lived in Spikemuth. He knows what entertainment means for them—fucking around with visitors.

Hell, Gordie, after splitting up from Bea to cover more ground, had met one of them, a dark-haired boy dressed in dark dress pants and a purple blazer with a similarly colored vest and a white dress shirt tucked underneath. Rather old-fashioned really, but it isn’t like Piers could judge all too much. His own aesthetic isn’t the most conventional either.

Still, outside of the boy—who gives their alias as Onion? He refuses to believe that any parent would name their child that willingly—and Gordie’s reaction, screaming and hands fumbling to catch his phone, it hadn’t been an all too eventful stream, not boring, simply mundane with no spectres or oddities of any kind to speak of.

At the very least, there hadn’t been any accidents: no steel beams falling, wild animals snarling, or anything else unfortunate. Instead, Onion had only followed Gordie around, awkwardly flustered, shy, and oddly curious about everything—about the phone, about Gordie’s manner of dress, and even about simple matters such as current events.

Overly sheltered and goaded into the stadium by a friend’s dare would be his guess.

Gordie had taken it all in good jest naturally—he is a natural showman and rather goodhearted—and had even teased Onion, questions of whether he was the ghost terrorizing Stow-on-Side or actually dead and of which were all met with a spluttering “No” and reddened cheeks.

Onion, despite his reluctance and jittery nature, had been a popular addition for that particular stream—old-fashioned attire and speech only adding to his appeal alongside a stuttered request for Gordie to visit again.

Nothing had happened on stream, nothing supernatural anyhow, but it had only goaded Gordie further into his research and that had leaked into their conversations.

With the recent trouble around Hammerlocke and his own worries combined with Gordie’s stories, his unease is to be expected.

Moreover, his house is old, construction dating back to the 1700s and architecture itself still reminiscent of the popular stylings of the time: oriel windows—leaded glass panes lined with curling tracery—grouped chimneys, and battlements. Certainly, it has been remodeled before—old fixings replaced and some rooms boarded off or redecorated with paneling, furniture, and wallpapers swapped—but for the most part, his house is much the same as it was at its time of creation.

Perhaps he shouldn’t complain—it is inherited after all, and the monetary inheritance would be more than enough for a complete remodeling—but its history and combined with the recent oddness doesn’t particularly help his mood or his sleep schedule.

He expects some creaking, house shifting or perhaps a lost rat scurrying in the attic, but not the strange thumping he sometimes hears or the occasional tapping—light and lasting no more than a second or three at most—upon his window.

He isn’t foolish enough to think it’s a person, but he does consider the prospect for a moment before quickly dismissing it. He sleeps on the third floor, and the tree beside his window is filled with birds’ nests. Anyone foolish enough to climb it for a practical joke would sooner find themselves with a broken neck or at the mercy of an owl’s wrath rather than any mischief-filled merriment. Furthermore, the property itself is surrounded by an iron bar fence.

The effort isn’t worth a practical joke or a burglary. Really, what fool would break into an occupied room? The most likely suspect would be the birds. There are enough of them roaming around Hammerlocke and squatting in the trees on his property. It isn’t all too strange, he thinks. Though, he sometimes finds feathers on his windowsill: a mixture of bent or even snapped contour and flight feathers and even simply down.

He assumes they’re the remnants of a scuffle—owls were supposed to be notoriously territorial, right?—but still, it doesn’t explain everything.

It doesn’t explain the strange noises he hears outside of his window. It isn’t the soft caw of a crow, the reverberating call of an owl, or even the shrill screech of car tires from the nearby roads, but rather, an odd humming—quiet and low and wispy.

He hadn’t even noticed the noise at first, not over the thrum of his guitar and the faint whirling of his laptop’s fan. Really, it is by chance that he had become aware of it—a consequence of his impromptu decision to leave his window slightly ajar and to pause his playing momentarily to adjust his webcam’s position.

He couldn’t blame the noise on an idle video in the background—he always makes sure to close those before he streams—nor could he blame it on the air conditioner, not with how the humming goes, tune familiar and too uneven to be the air conditioner.

He couldn’t blame it on any of that, not when he recognizes the melody—a clumsy rendition of one of his more recent musical pieces.

 _But still_ , he reasons, _it could simply be his imagination_. The humming itself had been brief, abruptly stopping mere seconds after he had set down his pick and his fingers had stilled on the fingerboard of his guitar.

It hadn’t started up again when he had begun playing once more or on the other occasions when he streams, every Saturday night at 7 p.m. sharp until 9 p.m. on the dot. He doesn’t hear anything in the ensuing weeks anyhow.

Pulling the curtains open then hadn’t helped. He hadn’t seen anything, nothing but the swaying leaves, a few empty nests nestled into the twisting, brown branches, and a few more feathers on his windowsill.

It couldn’t be a person—no one could climb up and then down that quickly, not without injury—and it most likely wouldn’t be a bird. As flattering as it would be, songbirds wouldn’t mimic his music, and moreover, why would it have stopped when it had? Certainly, it could have flown away or grown bored but that explanation doesn’t quite sit right with him—too coincidental.

Thus, it must be his imagination. He wouldn’t accept another explanation.

It wouldn’t make sense otherwise.

Nevertheless, no matter the reason for the noise, it, alongside his speculation, doesn’t help his budding insomnia or his mood. Smoking on the porch doesn’t ease his mood either. Rather, being outside only intensifies the dread he feels, causes goosebumps to raise upon his arms and for him to look around warily.

He doesn’t see anything naturally, nothing but his empty yard and the occasional passing car—reds, blues, and silvers passing by in a blur in-between the iron bars of the fence.

It is all rather infuriating really, but he couldn’t do much about it.

He doesn’t know the source of his dread after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gordie/Allister is one of those "why?" things, but yeah, that's also my agenda. I like the ship even if it's like...just me in a little canoe...I have reasons, but they don't really need to be explained here since it's such a brief moment ya know? Small towns really are like that though. All the really "interesting" stuff is usually restaurants or driving around unless you wanna go to a different city. Or walking around the local grocery store...smaller towns have it even worse...
> 
> I always do love "background" events and dramatic irony as well...


	6. The Hierophant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's actually 2 chapters today, though it's more like a chapter and a half honestly. I just can't see it being any good to make a singular update with such a short chapter.

Piers finds himself out early again, not because of another unspecified event and an inconsiderate boss but because of his poor conduct. It isn’t a poor judgement on his boss’s part—he knows he had been out of line to snarl at that woman for a simple if obnoxious request—but truly, who requests the same damn song twelve times in a row?

Really, he’s lucky that he hadn’t been dismissed entirely—fired to be less obtuse—instead of simply being reprimanded and told to go home for the evening, but it had been his first offense and Vinny, despite all of his faults, is a lenient boss in some aspects. Furthermore, he doubts that his boss would have been able to find another replacement in time, no one else who would be willing to memorize hundreds of songs anyhow. It wouldn’t make sense to fire him now either, not with Janet so close to recovering completely.

Simply put, it would be more work to fire him now than it would be to keep him around for a bit longer.

Piers sighs again before he fishes out his lighter and a cigarette. With the stress of work, his increasing expenditure of cigarettes, and his near-lack of sleep, he isn’t particularly agreeable, more moody than pleasant and more like his teenage self than as an adult should be. His scowl would be more than enough to deter most people.

Cigarette held loosely between his lips and hand cupped around the flickering flame of his lighter, Piers lights it before pocketing his lighter and turning onto Apple Grove Road. It isn’t his normal route—it is a much longer route home really—but he needs time to clear his head.

Furthermore, he doesn’t have much choice in the matter, not with the barricades set up on 12th—some double homicide investigation that had impeded him on the way to work and that had almost made him late.

Apple Grove isn’t completely empty, unsurprising considering the time of day, and he receives a few dirty looks as he passes, not that he minds. Really, he knows the general opinion on smoking, and he is an asshole for doing it in public—he wouldn't deny that—but it isn’t like Hammerlocke has public smoking laws. Nothing that applies to public sidewalks anyway.

He doesn’t expect to find anything strange today. Apple Grove isn’t anything special, nothing like downtown or Hammerlocke’s historic districts. Instead, it is a rather simple street, one of those that one would forget about minutes later after passing through and lined with delis, restaurants, and the occasional convenience store alongside bottle shops and pubs.

After a few minutes, Piers takes another right onto Maple before he stills, footsteps stopping.

Really, he doesn’t understand why he keeps meeting Victor like this, but perhaps, it shouldn’t be surprising. From what he could infer from their encounters, Victor likes to keep to this section of Hammerlocke.

Though, he doesn’t understand why Victor would choose to stand in front a church of all things and with such a forlorn air about him. Perhaps it is a consequence of the time of day and the vacantness of the street—Maple with its lack of stores and the abundance of unmarked and unrented buildings is even less memorable than Apple Grove and much less traveled—but he would describe the scene as morose, almost sad even.

Victor doesn’t turn even when Piers walks to and stops beside him, cigarette smoke wafting.

“Somethin’ wrong, Victor? If you want to go in, the door’s probably not locked.”

Victor doesn’t reply at first, and Piers almost asks again until he shakes his head.

“No, I”—Victor pauses for a moment—“do you think everyone’s welcome in there?”

Bit of a weird question in his opinion. Piers is fairly certain that most churches would love to have new members if the door-to-door evangelicals were any indication. He isn’t especially religious—more of an agnostic than anything else—but he has met more than enough of those types to assume.

“Yeah.” Piers doesn’t quite know what to make of the look in Victor’s eyes, a peculiar melancholy unsuited for his age and appearance. “Churches don’t really turn anyone away. That's kind of the point of them.”

Another shake of the head. “No I mean…would they _want_ everyone?”

Despite the vagueness of his statement, Piers understands the implications well enough.

“They’re churches, Victor,” Piers begins carefully though he couldn’t quite hide all of his emotions. “I don’t know what your mother or whoever told you that, but you’ll always be wanted.”

“My mother?” Victor tilts his head, oddly confused, before his expression returns to normal. “Right, my mother.”

Weird, but he brushes it off. It isn’t like they know each other all too well. Furthermore, many of his own words are based on mere speculation and implications.

“Really, all they preach about is love and forgiveness.” It is a bit of bullshit on his part—most of his knowledge on the matter comes from movies and the brief interactions he has had with evangelicals—but he understands faith even if he himself doesn’t subscribe to it. “Even if they didn’t, there are other people who care about you.”

“Like whom?” There is a bizarre intensity and evenness to Victor’s voice, no nervousness or stuttering like in their previous meetings.

“Like,” Piers pauses. Shit, he couldn’t say himself. That would be weird and skeevy considering their unfamiliarity with one another. Hell, it makes him _feel_ weird and skeevy even thinking about it—causes a light ache in his head—but he couldn’t simply leave him without an answer.

“I—look, I care about you. I know that’s probably weird for you to hear. We don’t really know each other, but I have a sister, and she’s only a few years older than you. I just…you’re too young to be out here or to think like that.”

“Thank you,” Victor says after a few moments of tense silence, an odd contentedness evident in his expression—in the slight upturn of the lips and in the way his body relaxes from its previous tightness—though it disappears soon enough, tightness swiftly returning.

At the very least, it is better than the alternative, better than Victor running off to find a policeman.

Perhaps it is against his better judgement, but Piers continues, “I know this’ll sound weird, but are you hungry? It’s about time for dinner, and Magnolia’s on Apple Grove is still open. I know you like to keep to this area, and I’m about done with my gig, so I don’t think we’ll be meetin’ up like this anymore.” Piers pauses before adding, “I’ll pay of course.”

“You’re leaving?” Victor’s response is rather sharp considering the subject matter, but Piers doesn’t pay it any mind. Victor’s young. Some volatility should be expected.

Piers nods. “Yeah. I’m only a temporary hire at Vinny’s until Janet, their regular singer, recovers. She’s about fully mended, so I’ll be findin’ a new job soon, probably in a different part of the city.”

He doesn’t expect Victor expression to darken further over something as simple as this, but it does. Though, he doesn't mind it really. He remembers being similarly quick to anger during his younger years.

Piers reaches over and ruffles Victor’s hair, startling him. Unlike their first meeting, there is a faint warmth to his skin. Rather unsurprising really considering the time of day and the forecast—an unusually warm autumn evening.

Really, he’s just rather glad that Victor doesn’t flinch this time.

“We might meet up again somewhere else, just not like this,” he says. “So, do you want to go for dinner?”

Victor shakes his head, hair soft underneath Piers’s palm.

“Sorry, I already ate earlier,” Victor replies. “Thank you for the offer though. But Vinny’s?”

“Yeah, on 7th Street.” Piers doesn’t see the harm in telling him. It isn’t like they would let him in. For the most part, Vinny’s almost never has a kid’s night out event.

“Right, 7th Street.” Victor’s tone is a bit odd in his opinion, but Piers doesn’t comment on it.

Victor is a strange kid for the most part even when they part a few minutes earlier, Victor in a rush—a consequence of forgetting some other errand his mother had assigned—and Piers returning to his leisurely pace.

 _Odd kid_ , he thinks as he lights another cigarette, having carefully snuffed out the last one and tossed it into a trash can. He doesn't really want to start an accidental trash fire.

Taking a drag, Piers makes his way home. He doesn’t plan to do much once he arrives. He only wants to sleep, perhaps after taking another ibuprofen. He doesn’t have much time after all. He has to take Marnie to the library next Sunday for her project with Bede and to fill out more job applications.

He would take what time he has to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Piers...you have the observational skills of a rock...I like to think Raihan's the most observant and sensible of the Adult Trio while the other two are...less so...
> 
> But realistically, I don't think most people would notice or come to wild conclusions.


	7. The Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of a brief interlude than anything else honestly, but this was written as one piece originally and all. It wasn't meant to be split into chapters, but doing so makes it more accessible and easier to read rather than having to do it in one sitting.

Bizarre. Absolutely bizarre.

He doesn’t expect to get a call from Vinny six days later on a Saturday about a permanent position or to see Janet’s picture on the local news, case coming up after a brief—pointless as well if one considers the lack of a clear suspect—update on the missing taxi drivers.

Death by suicide.

As morbid it is to say, it is rather coincidental but that is life, he supposes. He hadn’t known her personally or her condition, but he assumes there is a reason for her actions. Everything happens for a reason. He certainly remembers being told that enough times growing up. Nevertheless, he finds himself accepting Vinny’s offer. He doesn’t plan to stay forever, but a steady income would ease some of his worries.

With the recent happenings around Hammerlocke and his house—he still hasn’t found the source of his dread nor does he understand why the bird population around his house has decreased so rapidly in such a short period of time—Piers doesn’t particularly want the added stress of a job search. Despite his acquittal, the circumstances of his parents’ death still hangs over him. Not everyone believes in his innocence.

Really, how would speculation even help? He doesn’t know the woman personally, and he isn’t involved in her life. And as much as both Raihan and Gordie like conspiracy theories, he isn’t particularly fond of them himself—too much of a waste of time in his opinion.

Furthermore, he’s already loss enough sleep over everything else. Adding something as trivial as this to his list of worries would be nothing more than a detriment to his health.

Perhaps it is overly coincidental —Raihan certainly thinks so by the way he chatters at breakfast—but he doesn’t have time to waste overthinking it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovers reversed would fit more imo, but as stated before, I want to keep unity in chapter titles. My current project is also proceeding at a glacial pace, but the problem for Raihan there is the reverse of Piers's here tbh...he notices too much and is too "active" of a protagonist...less ennui and more gumption...


	8. The Chariot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

Hammerlocke Public Library isn’t especially near their house, and he doesn’t really need to go with Marnie—she is seventeen after all—but he does.

Perhaps it’s a distaste for Bede—he doesn’t care for how close they are—combined with a natural urge to shelter her as her older brother, but he finds himself awake and at the library at seven in the morning.

There isn’t much to do really, outside of wandering around the various floors and stacks to find a quiet place to sleep. He could read or scroll through his social media feeds of course, but he doesn’t think he would be able to concentrate on them, not with his currently frazzled state of mind.

Likewise, he couldn’t smoke outside to pass the time. He doesn’t want a fine.

Unfortunately, however, Sundays are a rather busy day for the library. Most chairs and tables are occupied by people or backpacks, and he doesn’t even think about going to the eighth floor for the study rooms. It would be a waste of time if the lower floors were any indication.

Thus, he finds himself on the fifth floor, aimless and wandering through the stacks.

He isn’t looking for anything in particular, only skimming the titles and authors.

A misplaced Hemingway, a few short story anthologies, and so forth. Nothing catches his attention on the shelves or in the aisles, not until he makes another turn.

To his surprise, a familiar flash of red meets his eye.

Victor, book cracked open and held in hand and eyes intent on its words. By the cover, it isn’t something he should be reading—too saucy for his age if the half-naked woman is any indication.

Really, where is his mother?

Piers quickly makes his way over and swipes the book from his hands.

“You shouldn’t be readin’ that, Victor,” he says as Victor’s complaint dies on his tongue, annoyance quickly turning into recognition. “You’re not old enough.”

“No one’s stopping me,” Victor replies. He doesn’t make any attempt to reclaim the novel. Piers doubts that he would be retrieve it anyhow, not with their difference in height.

Piers shakes his head. “That doesn’t mean you should.”

It’s hypocritical of him—he knows what he got up to around Victor’s age—but he doesn’t exactly want to ignore Victor’s actions, doesn’t want to be complicit in a poor upbringing.

“Where’s your mother?” he asks, more curious than anything else. The library isn’t exactly close to Goldenpine Avenue.

“At home,” Victor replies with ease. “I like to come here sometimes since it’s quiet, and there’s a lot of books.”

Shit. Piers feels another pang of sympathy and irritation. Who lets their child walk this far? It would be, at the very least, a forty-five-minute walk, and he doubts that Victor had taken the bus or a taxi. Too expensive.

“What are you doing here?” Victor asks. “I mean I know you’re probably here to read, but I haven’t seen you here before.”

“My sister’s project. She’s working on analyzing Galar’s history and culture for her senior project.”

Piers doesn’t know the specifics of it, but Victor perks up anyhow.

“Oh! Like Furlong Town and Arabesque Town and all of those?” Noticing Piers’s expression, Victor pauses for a moment. “Like the sheep town to the south and the one with all the colorful mushrooms?”

Piers doesn’t quite know where Victor had gotten those names, but he knows the descriptions well enough.

“You mean Postwick and Ballonlea?”

“Oh, so that’s what they’re calling them now,” Victor mumbles before explaining, “I read a lot of history books, so I don’t really know the modern names.”

Victor shuffles again before continuing, “Fur—Postwick used to be a town for fur traders and hunters before they swapped to primarily farming and animal husbandry. I ‘unno know if your sister wants to focus on that, but the town also has a lot of history with Kalos as well since they were one of the first towns to be invaded in the ninth century during the Conquest an—” Victor yawns before rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, an adorable gesture if it were not for the implications. “Sorry, I get really sleepy during the day.”

Piers doesn’t doubt that. With the cigarette runs Victor makes, he probably doesn’t get much sleep.

“Anyways, Postwi—” Another yawn and another apology. “Sorry, I usually sleep here once I’m done reading.”

Oh fuck. He couldn’t quite take this anymore.

Piers interrupts Victor when he opens his mouth again, “Do you want to come over to my house? I can give you a spare key. You don’t have to keep sleepin’ at the library or wanderin’ around town.”

He knows it sounds suspicious—a grown man inviting an eleven-year-old to his house isn’t exactly the most explainable situation—but he doesn’t want to leave Victor as he is. He doesn’t think Victor would steal anything, too earnest for that, and Raihan normally stays home anyhow.

To his relief, however, Victor, after his surprise subsides, only nods.

“We can go today if you want,” Piers says. “After Marnie finishes.”

“Okay.” It is a rather plain response, at the very least, Victor had accepted his offer. He doesn’t want to imagine how awkward it would have been if he had declined.

Hours later, he finds himself on the first floor again, nap interrupted by the vibrating of his cellphone—Marnie’s text—and with Victor next to him. He doesn’t blame Marnie when her eyebrow raises at Victor’s presence, but he only mouths an “I’ll explain later” to her.

Thankfully, she doesn’t press further.


	9. Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're coming up to little under the halfway mark for word count now which is nice.

Victor ends up becoming a regular visitor to his house though Piers couldn’t quite get him to stop wandering around at night. Despite his prodding and insistence, Victor rarely stays for dinner, leaving instead a half-hour earlier, and after a week, he finds Victor waiting outside of Vinny’s—10:30 p.m. sharp—for him on the days that he sings.

He isn’t sure how Victor had worked out his schedule, but he assumes that Victor had guessed based on their first meeting. Victor is rather intelligent. His knowledge of Galar’s past is proof enough of that. Piers doesn’t even remember learning about half of the events that he and Marnie talk about—the progression of Galar’s linguistics, Hammerlocke’s history as a major military fort, and so forth. Granted, he doubts that History I and II would have covered them. He hadn’t been a history major after all.

Though despite his friendship with Marnie and despite Raihan’s best efforts, Victor doesn’t quite seem to care for his housemate.

He hears enough complaints about it from Raihan anyhow.

“Really, I don’t get why he hates me so much,” Raihan complains over dinner, Marnie’s second attempt at rolling sushi. It isn’t the best sushi in the world—too much rice and too little filling—but he isn’t going to tell Marnie that. He doesn’t want to crush her spirits tonight, not with how proud she looks. Though, he could say that it, at the very least, is better than her first attempt.

The rice had been awful then—too much vinegar and too little sugar and salt.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Piers says. “He’s always really nice.”

“That’s because _you’re_ in the room,” Raihan says before turning to Marnie.”There’s too much rice this time compared to the filling, but it’s good otherwise.”

“Oh,” Marnie deflates a bit, but she nods.

Raihan turns to face Piers again. “Furthermore, don’t you think it’s weird how coincidental everything is? You keep meeting up with him, the weird noises stop as soon as he gets here, Janet dying a week before your job was supposed to end? It’s all a bit creepy, you know?”

“You sound like Gordie now,” Piers says, voice slightly irritable. “Do you really think an eleven-year-old killed Janet? How’d he even find her apartment? Or get in?”

Not to mention the noises. He doubts an eleven-year-old would be able to jump his fence or climb onto the roof of the house. Someone would have noticed already.

Raihan shakes his head. “No, but it’s all really weird, you know? He could be…”—Raihan makes a motion with his hand—“ a honeypot. I just know that he wants something. I don’t know what though.”

“That word doesn’t mean what you think it means. Really, he hasn’t done anythin’ yet.”

“ _Yet_ ”—Raihan makes another motion with his hand—“let’s stop talking about this for now. We’re not going to come to an agreement.”

Piers nods. He doesn’t want an an argument this late at night.

Raihan continues, ”Also, have you’ve heard from Leon recently? He’s been ignoring my calls and Sonia’s. Hell, he’s been ignoring his _brother’s_ calls. You know he never ignores his brother.”

“Nah, I haven’t,” Piers says. “Have you’ve tried callin’ Gordie? He’s supposed to be in Sinnoh right now. He’d probably be able to make a detour to Veilstone.”

Raihan shakes his head. “Already tried that. Gordie finished filming early. He’s back in Stow-on-Side now.”

“Ah.” It isn’t that Piers doesn’t care about Leon, but really, what could he do? Much like everyone else, Leon has been ignoring his messages. They couldn’t call the university about it either. Aloofness by itself isn’t grounds for an intervention.

Dinner isn’t a silent affair afterwards though perhaps it is a bit more awkward—air tense after their recent conversation topics—but they make do, chattering about work and Marnie’s project.

He still doesn’t like his boss, but at the very least, his pay is better now—equal to Janet’s rather than a temporary’s.

“Was the ratio really that off?” Marnie asks him afterwards as she washes the dishes. It’s her turn this week.

“A little bit,” Piers admits before rectifying his statement at Marnie’s gaze. “Okay, a lot, but the flavor wasn’t bad.”

Marnie nods, satisfied, before she frowns. “You didn’t have to lie to me before. I asked you about it before dinner.”

“I just didn’t want to hurt you. You already made a bunch, and you worked hard on them.”

“I appreciate it, but you don’t have to keep protectin’ me,” Marnie says as she stacks another dish into the drying rack. “I don’t cry as much as I used to.”

“I know, but…”

“Really”—Marnie shakes her head—“you don’t have to keep actin’ like this. You don’t even curse in front of me.”

She places another dish onto the rack.

“I”—she pauses, considering her words—“I’m not a little girl anymore, and I wish you’d stop treatin’ me like one. I know you’re my big brother, but I want to grow up. I’m eighteen next week, and you treat me like I’m still seven.”

Piers doesn’t really know how to reply. He knows he coddles her, but he didn’t think it had bothered her that much. Perhaps his reply is rather simple considering the subject matter, but he doesn’t have much else to say, nothing that would fit the occasion anyhow.

“Okay, I won’t.”

As simple as his reply is, it, at the very least, makes her smile—wide and beaming and much like her younger self.

He misses that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think one of Piers's major problems is his inability to act—a self-inflicted lack of agency. I think it's important to look at how he responds to everything and what he focuses on to see who he is as a character. He isn't entirely "reliable" at times.
> 
> Though unrelated, but this is also a Gordie/Allister house. I'm not quite sure why honestly. I just think it'd be cute.


	10. The Hermit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is like the counterpart to "The Year King" tbh just like how "Misfire Miss" is to "Trois March" tbh.

Autumn eventually turns into winter—each calendar date struck through with red marker and each month flipped and pinned with a thumbtack—and for the most part, Victor is a routine visitor, rarely missing a day and always arriving at roughly the same time, 6 a.m. and leaving at 6 p.m. before returning with him at night.

To Piers’s dismay, however, Victor does the same on school days, and despite their growing fondness for one another, he couldn’t quite convince him to drop the habit. Even a bargain of picking him up from school doesn’t entice Victor to go. Instead, Victor only shrugs his shoulders.

He doesn’t know which district Victor goes to—no way to report truancy. He couldn’t call the school board either. As odd as it is, he doesn’t know Victor’s last name, and a call from someone of his stature and status would only arouse suspicion.

Hammerlocke still hasn’t quite forgotten the deaths of two of their most prominent socialites or the rumors surrounding him.

Excessive truancy is certainly a problem, but it also isn’t his only concern when it comes to Victor. Victor’s manner of dress is a concern as well.

Victor’s outfit never changes, simple red polo shirt worn with denim jeans staying despite the days passing and the temperature shifting. There isn’t a smell to it—Piers assumes he must be washing it somewhere—but it doesn’t quite sit well with him. Unless Victor has dozens of the same outfit stashed at his home—doubtful considering his presumed financial situation—he has been wearing the same set for months.

Much like with his attempts to get Victor to attend school, he refuses to accept another set of clothes.

There isn’t a real reason to it really—pride perhaps but that is more of his own speculation than anything entirely truthful.

Asking only nets another shrug of the shoulders and a simple “I like these clothes.”

It is an overly arbitrary answer, but it is the only one he receives on the matter.

At the very least, Victor doesn’t mind borrowing nightwear—a set of his old pajamas, fabric worn and thin from years of use—on the rare nights when he stays over. Denim isn’t the most comfortable material to sleep in.

Nonetheless, Piers couldn’t quite leave the matter alone. Who would? Galar itself is a place known for its brutal winters—temperatures frequently plummeting into the negatives and weather overly volatile.

He couldn’t leave him alone while knowing that.

As a result, Piers finds himself rummaging through his old clothes in the attic. Perhaps it makes him cheap—he doesn’t mean to be—but he doesn’t think Victor would accept anything new and still in its plastic wrapping.

Victor, despite his age, is rather old-fashioned at times—fixating on familiarity and routine over newness.

It is strange—most people would prefer the opposite—but he won’t question it. Everyone has their quirks, and it’s more important to garb Victor for the winter than to question his sense, or lack thereof.

Rather unfortunately, however, he doesn’t find much left—a consequence of his parents’ frequent bouts of spring cleaning. The most he can find is an old wool cap with its matching scarf and a thermal undershirt hidden underneath a bunch of VHS tapes in one of the boxes in the corner.

He couldn’t do much with the undershirt. Unfortunately, it’s too large for Victor, being one of his shirts from after his growth spurt rather than before. It wouldn’t be any help really. At most, it would slip from Victor’s shoulders.

At the very least, he could use the hat and scarf. They aren’t the most fashionable things—gray, plain, and knitted more for practicality than to attract attention—but they would be warm. That would be enough for now. He could slowly add more to Victor’s wardrobe at a later date.

Sitting in a chair across from Victor, Piers presents them, freshly hand-washed and neatly folded, to him the next night.

“I don’t need them,” Victor says as he shakes his head. “I don’t get cold easily.”

“That’s not the point, Victor.” He doesn’t understand how Victor could be so stubborn over such a simple matter. “You’ll get sick if you don’t cover up more.”

“I haven’t gotten sick yet.” He squints at the hat and scarf. “I don’t like wool. It’s too warm.”

“I—Victor, _that’s the point_. Wool’s supposed to keep you warm.”

“But I don’t like it,” Victor replies. Shit, it’s like— _it is like_ —talking to a child, contrary and often incomprehensible. Despite Victor’s precocious nature, he could be stubborn over the strangest things, overly childish.

Rather than arguing further, Piers quickly unfolds the hat, reaches over the table, and pulls it over Victor’s head, messing up his hair and obscuring his eyes.

“It doesn’t look bad on you,” Piers says as Victor readjusts the hat and fixes his hair. Thankfully, Victor doesn’t immediately take it off. “It’s rather cute actually.”

It isn’t flattery. He truly does think that there’s a certain charm to it—in the way his hair sticks up from beneath the cap’s hem and in how the color accentuates the red of his shirt and the rich brown of his hair. Alongside the flush of his cheeks and how his hair now frames his face, Victor looks even younger. It certainly doesn’t help that the hat is a bit oversized, a consequence of the stretched fabric.

Endearing, excessively endearing. That is how Piers would describe him.

Piers unfolds the scarf next before leaning forward once more.

To his surprise, however, Victor quickly leans away, his own chair creaking with the motion.

Victor shakes his head again. “I don’t need it. The hat’s good enough.”

Piers doesn’t quite like the nervousness in Victor’s voice.

“It’s a set. It won’t look bad or anythin’.”

Another shake of Victor’s head, and this time, Piers, scarf still in hand, moves from his seat before walking to stand next to Victor. Fortunately, Victor doesn’t move away from his touch or flinch this time. Instead, he only tenses.

The flesh underneath his fingertips is rather cool as he draws the scarf around Victor’s neck, but he doesn’t think much of it. It is a rather cool night, and they hadn’t turned the heater all the way up. With Raihan and Marnie both away—he in Kanto to visit his partner, some red-haired man he’s never quite caught the name of, and Marnie in Ballonlea with Bede for her project—they hadn’t needed to turn it up all the way.

Unlike Raihan and Marnie, he prefers a light chill over excessive heat, and Victor has no real preference.

Despite the strangeness of Victor’s reaction, he doesn’t think much of it until his palm brushes again against the left side of his neck and against a raised patch of skin—scar tissue.

Piers pulls Victor’s collar down, frown deepening as he regards it.

“Who did this?”

Victor doesn’t look at him as he replies, “It was an accident.”

“Doesn’t look like one.” Perhaps his response is insensitive, but it isn’t a lie.

A mesh of dark pink and white, the two jagged, dark spots—old puncture wounds he would assume if it were not for how damaged the flesh is around them, shredded and now messily healed as if an animal had torn into him—mar the white of his skin.

No reply, but at the very least, Victor doesn’t move away instead choosing to keep his gaze on the table.

“Victor, I care about you,” Piers says, carefully choosing his words. He doesn’t want Victor to withdraw into himself. “You don’t have to be afraid to tell me about it.”

Another pause, and Piers almost repeats his statement again until Victor shakes his head again.

“Everything happens for a reason,” Victor says. It is an overly contradictory statement in his opinion—how could it be both an accident and predetermined?—but Victor turns to face him before Piers could question him.

“I should have listened to her,” he says, eyes strangely intense and words hurried. “It wouldn’t have happened otherwise. I shouldn’t have snuck out that night. I should have stayed home, and done the dishes an—”

Piers interrupts him sharply. He doesn’t quite want to hear any more. “Your mom— _no one_ —gets to treat you like this.”

Victor shakes his head. “No, you don’t get it. It’s a punishment for my sins, an—”

“Victor, you’re _eleven_. What sins could you have? Somethin’ that deserves _this_?” He presses a finger lightly against the raised skin, and Victor shudders lightly at the touch. “Even if you had done somethin’, you don’t deserve to be treated like this.”

Victor opens his mouth before closing it, mumbling, “Right, I’m eleven…”

Odd, but Piers brushes it off, too incensed by the matter at hand.

“Really, Victor, what could you have done?”

Victor doesn’t mumble this time, instead hesitating for a few brief moments—overly contemplative—before he speaks.

“I want when I shouldn’t.”

Piers assumes it’s a religious thing—he remembers their meeting in front of that church—but much like his other answers, Piers finds them all ridiculous.

“That’s _human_ , Victor.” He feels the slight tremble underneath his fingertips again, but he doesn’t blame Victor. He hears how his voice rises, agitated and angry. “People always want things. It’s not a sin to want more. Look—maybe I’m oversteppin’—but religion, this sort of religion anyway, shouldn’t govern your life this much if it’s being used to justify crap like this.”

“But…”

Piers shakes his head before interrupting him. “It’s okay to want. You don’t have to abandon your faith or anything just…think of yourself first.”

Clumsy and ineloquent, but he doesn’t know how else to say it. Unlike with singing, he doesn’t quite know how to articulate his thoughts when it comes to simply speaking.

Perhaps it’s foolish of him—overly cliché—but he finds himself leaning downward, drawing Victor into a hug, arms wrapped loosely around a much smaller frame and left hand stroking through brown hair, Victor’s hat having been displaced with the motion.

It isn’t much objectively, but it is the most he can do—the most familiar course of action. He remembers comforting Marnie in much of the same manner during her childhood, during her tearful fits and after her tantrums.

Thankfully, Victor returns the motion—cool skin pressing against his and thin arms tightly hugging.

After a few moments, Piers hears Victor’s voice, muffled and soft and wispy against his chest.

“I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not losing interest in the fandom or anything tbh considering my low fic posting lately. I'm just busy writing an age swap AU for Leon/Victor and/or Piers/Victor. It's so long right now even though I haven't even passed section 3...dunno if I'll tag Slow Burn though since IDK the final length yet. I also have a Piers/Leon ficlet finished, but I can never figure out when to post it because I always worry about spamming tags/emails...
> 
> Though, Victor is a rather "active" character in this. It's rather different from who Piers is honestly. They're both trapped by similar things, but the approach is rather different I think. As a side note, there is a long sex scene in this fic. It's just not here yet. It exists already, but it's locked up on my hard drive until post date. I'm also waiting for Fanexus too honestly since I'm tired of Twitter and Tumblr...I have a block chain active on there but somehow bad takes keep multiplying...
> 
> I also think this is the "final" nail if you want to guess what Victor actually is with near-certainty. Piers had like fifty warning signs, but he missed most of them. Granted, there's no reason for him to guess Victor's anything else besides an abused child. Honestly, I would not have tagged Species Swap if I could avoid it, but I also know people "read" in reference to tags. I don't really want any actual guesses though since it comes later anyway...I didn't break lore or anything either technically. I just went with a mix of "old-school/classic" combined with a certain other franchise.


	11. Wheel of Fortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

“Do you have any regrets?” Victor asks on their walk home the next night. Despite the events of the previous night, Victor isn’t all too different—still that unfathomable blend of innocence and brief melancholy.

Tonight itself, however, had been a bit different. He doesn’t know how Victor had gotten in—it hadn’t been a night for children—but he had. With the placement of the stage itself, Piers hadn’t even noticed him at first, diminutive frame garbed in his familiar attire and donning that gray hat and that matching scarf. Really, it had only been by chance that he had glanced at the entranceway.

Voice quiet, head tilted slightly with eyes watching, and posture inquisitive. That had been how he stayed for the rest of tonight’s performance, all three hours of it.

Piers shakes his head. “Bit of a heavy question, isn’t it?”

Truly it is, but perhaps he shouldn’t have expected anything else. Children are rather prone to this sort of oddness, and the song choices tonight had been melancholic, befitting of a late winter night. Hell, he had ended the night with “When I Grow Too Old to Dream.”

“Yeah,” Victor mutters, eyes looking forward. “But do you?”

Piers nods. He doubts Victor could see his response. “Every adult has them.”

Victor stops suddenly, and Piers follows suit, curious.

“What about _you_?” Victor stresses the last word. “I know adults are afraid of stuff, but is there anything you regret specifically?”

Piers shakes his head. “Nothin’ I’d burden you with.” He grabs Victor’s hand—really, he should get him some gloves. His hands are freezing—and fortunately, Victor doesn’t resist when they begin walking again.

He had checked the weather report earlier. They don’t want to be out for too long. Getting caught in a snowstorm isn’t high on his list of priorities.

Piers feels Victor’s grip on his hand tighten slightly as they continue. It is a rather lonesome night today—store lights dark, streetlamps flickering, and snowflakes drifting lightly. Much like himself, most want to avoid tonight’s storm.

“I don’t mind,” Victor says. “I can listen.”

“You’re too young for this,” Piers says, and he feels a tug on his hand as a response before Victor stops again, footsteps stilling.

“I’m not.” Despite the briefness of his words, there is an odd intensity to it, one almost entirely unbefitting for a child’s visage. “I mean”—his voice turns soft again—“I don’t mind. Really, you can tell me. I…I’m more mature than I look.”

“No, you’re not.” Piers tugs Victor’s hand gently, but the boy doesn’t move. “Really, Victor…don’t try growin’ up so fast. You only get to experience childhood once. Leave adult stuff to when you’re older.”

“I can handle it.” He pauses for a moment. “Really, I can handle it. You don’t have to coddle me.”

At Victor’s statement, Marnie’s words flitter through Piers’s mind before he quickly shakes them off. He couldn’t—shouldn’t—compare them. Victor, unlike Marnie, is nowhere near adulthood—not in his voice, still high and tinny; not in his appearance, cheeks round and body small underneath the red of his shirt; and not in his request; childish and single-minded.

No adult wants to remember their mistakes, small and large, or to experience the bloom of embarrassment once more.

Piers almost speaks again, but Victor interrupts, “I’ll walk with you if you talk to me about it. I won’t be difficult. The storm’s coming soon too, so we should hurry.”

“Victor, that’s not…”

“Piers, please”—How odd it feels to hear his name without the honorific!—"I just, I just want to know what being an adult feels like. I want to understand _you_.”

It is a strange request, a strange phrasing to boot, but he couldn’t quite decline, not with how Victor looks at him—eyes dark as wet clay and head tilted to look at him, expression mournful.

They are nowhere near the same in height. What a strange, obvious detail to notice, but he notices then.

“I—fine,” Piers says. He doesn’t know why he accepts—he could simply pick Victor up, carry him home, and be done with it all—but he does. “Just keep pace. None of the stores here are open, so we can’t take shelter if we get caught out here.”

Victor nods, and they begin their trek home once more.

“I’m,” Piers begins, “I’m afraid of being left behind. You probably don’t get it since you’re so young, but I’m afraid of failin’.” They turn right onto Main Street. “It’s shi—silly of me, but I feel like all my friends are goin’ places while I’m still well…”stuck,” aimless.”

“Don’t you want to be a singer though?”

Piers shakes his head. “I do, but it feels like I don’t have enough time. It feels like I’m wastin’ my life and that my parents were right.”

“What were they right about?”

“How awful my life choices are. How I shouldn’t have pursued music as a career and should have kept it as a hobby. Can’t even prove them wrong because they’re both dead, and well”—Piers makes a sweeping motion with his free hand—“look at me. Haven’t even got a deal yet. I’m singin’ at some lounge, and it’s not even my music.”

“But I like your voice though,” Victor says, and Piers feels the grip on his hand tighten. It isn’t enough to hurt, but he feels the lines on Victor’s palm and the warmth of it, a result of holding hands.

“It’s not my music though,” Piers replies. “I like singin’, but it’s not mine. It’s…inauthentic.” Another turn onto another street. “And I feel like I’m runnin’ out of time.”

“Time?” There’s that same oddness again, the same strangeness in how Victor’s tongue curls around the word. “So, you want more time?”

“Yeah. I don’t want to waste any more time either. It feels like it’s all slippin’ away. Not even that old—I’m twenty-five—but it feels like it’s all rushin’ pass me.”

Another turn onto another street. With the snow falling around them and the darkened window fronts.

“That’s all I want to say on the matter. I don’t have anythin’ else worthwhile to add.” Piers shakes his head. “Any other requests?”

Victor’s reply comes after a few moments, words soft once more—audible among the silence and the drifting snowflakes.

“Can you sing for me? One of your songs?”

Perhaps it is an attempt to make him feel better, but Piers complies, nodding after a few seconds. He has no reason to decline.

Singing softly and hand in hand with Victor, Piers makes his way home—footsteps disturbing white snow and voice cleaving through silence.

“Maybe my songs don't make anyone happy. Maybe I can't help…”

It isn’t the happiest song in his repertoire, but his music has never been cheery.

At the very least, he hears Victor hum along—quiet and low and wispy.

How oddly familiar.


	12. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working on my current project and almost done, so I'll finally have something new to post...it's Leon/Raihan but ha...don't know if anyone will want it considering content...supposed to be working on the Leon/Victor as well, but it's so long and undone right now since it's supposed to be setting stage and background for the AU...

Sitting upon his bed and with Victor across from him, Piers finds himself singing once more—a medley of old folk tunes, the occasional modern melody, and his own lyrics—with the snow pattering upon the roof as their only company.

He doesn’t quite understand Victor’s musical leanings—the majority of his requests are for songs decades or even hundreds of years old—but rather fortunately, he knows most of them, a consequence of his job’s requirements.

He’s fairly certain that he doesn’t pronounce all of the words correctly, but still, he sings them anyway, voice crooning along with the faint wind outside. At the very least, Victor doesn't complaint, preferring instead to simply listen.

He isn’t quite sure how long it goes—he singing and Victor listening—but it is a few hours at the very least, time drifting like ice floes upon an ocean or simply ice cubes tinkling in a glass of tap water.

4 a.m. is what his clock reads, numbers blaring red, when he turns to check the time and to retrieve his glass of water from the nearby nightstand.

Setting down the now empty glass back on its coaster, he hears Victor shift—legs crossed, palms resting upon the sheets of the bed, and body leaning forward slightly. It is an overly childish position especially when combined with his state of dress, plain, white pajamas that they had borrowed from Marnie’s dresser. They’re still rather large on him, top slipping off one shoulder and bottoms’ drawstring tightened and tied tightly into a messy bow, but it would be warmer than any of his own clothing. If Marnie’s are this ill-fitted then his own would only dwarf Victor’s frame, shirt reaching knees or perhaps even ankles and sweatpants rolled up thrice at the very least.

“You can touch me if you want,” Victor says. There’s a strange tenseness in his voice, but Piers pays it no real mind.

He turns to face Victor. “I mean, yeah. I can. You’re not a ghost, Victor. I ca—”

Victor shakes his head. “No, I mean, you can _touch_ me.” He emphasizes the word, and Piers notes how his hands grip at the sheets, knuckles white.

“Sorry, I don’t kno—”

“I’m saying,” Victor says, voice rising slightly, “you can fuck me.”

An awkward silence descends then before Piers speaks, “I…I don’t think you know what you’re offerin’.”

“I do!” Victor says. Piers doesn’t mean to, but he notices how Victor licks his lips then, pink tongue rolling over chapped lips before withdrawing between white teeth—a nervous habit. “Really, I don’t mind. I like you a lot—so very much—and it’s fine! I’m offering, and I won’t tell anyone.”

Briefly, Piers remembers Gordie’s speculation, and he inwardly curses. The scarring alongside the flinching and the precociousness. He hates when Gordie’s right, or perhaps partially right. He doesn’t have a true confirmation on Victor’s “profession,” as horrid as it is to say.

Victor continues, “I just want you look at me.” He pauses again. “I just like you so much. It hurts my chest and my head when I look at you, and I just…please, I just want you to _look_ at me.”

Piers feels the beginnings of a mild migraine before he shakes his head, dispelling it.

“Victor,” Piers begins carefully, “I can’t do that. You’re too young, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t say no,” Victor says in response, and Piers inwardly winces. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Victor’s feelings. “I _like_ you, Piers. It’s not wrong.”

“You’re a child. That’s what’s wrong.” Piers pauses for a moment. He still doesn’t want to hurt Victor’s feelings. “Why don’t you wait a few more years, and see if you feel the same?”

“I’m not!” Victor shakes his head before whispering, “I’m not.”

There is a strange sort of intensity to his voice, but Piers assumes it’s his imagination—a consequence of his quickening heartbeat and the tenseness he feels coiling in his bones.

He doesn’t want to hurt Victor even if it would be the easiest course of action.

Victor continues, “I’m mature, and…”—he licks his lips again—“I don’t mind.”

“That’s not the point. I’m not goin' to take advantage of you.”

“You wouldn’t be! I’m no—”

“You are,” Piers interrupts. “I care for you, Victor. I’m not goin' to do this.”

I-I fine,” Victor mutters, eyes downcast. Piers doesn’t expect Victor to speak again—he knows what it feels like to feel disappointment—but he does.

“Can I stay in your room tonight? I won’t be a bother or anything.”

Piers almost declines then. Victor has his own room a few doors down, next to Marnie’s, but he hesitates. He doesn’t quite like the look in Victor’s eyes, not quite wet with tears yet but somber all the same, and the house is rather lonely tonight without Raihan and Marnie. They wouldn’t be back until another two weeks, just in time for New Year’s.

He doesn’t want to send Victor away as he is now, dejected and lonesome.

“I-alright.”

He doesn’t relegate Victor to the floor—he isn’t going to make a child sleep on the ground—but he doesn’t share his bed with Victor either, too strange or perhaps even inappropriate considering tonight’s conversation.

Instead, he ends up pulling out a spare pillow and blanket from the hallway storage closet.

The floor isn’t the most comfortable place, but he makes do. He has to.

Alongside the beating of his own heart, deafening and swift, and the slight creaking of the bed beside him—unsurprisingly, Victor’s restless—he hears the thrum of snow outside, heavy and thumping like footsteps.

Despite the noise, however, he couldn’t quite drown out his thoughts—the slight tremble of Victor’s shoulders, the light pink of his tongue, and even the terrible softness of his eyes, yearning and sweet—and the memory of his offer. Really, it should be unsurprising—it had only been about ten minutes before after all—but he couldn’t quite stop thinking about it even when Victor quiets, bed stilling and noise ceasing, dozens of minutes later.

He shouldn’t be curious nor should he feel as he does now—sweaty despite the chill of the room and the thinness of his blanket and the slight prick of arousal, warmth curling in his stomach and the slight strain against his sweatpants.

He’s rather glad that he had chosen loose fit pants tonight.

He doesn’t quite like the coil in his chest or the possibilities that his mind unwittingly conjures up—sharp hipbones rubbing and rutting against soft thighs, well-formed nails, each like a miniature rose petal, clawing at his back; marring pale skin, and a voice, high and wanting and _childish_.

He couldn’t quite control his thoughts or the swell of excitement.

He wants to touch him, grasp him like a dove in hand and _twist_. True violence isn’t his desire, but desire, nonetheless, is akin to death.

Want, Want, Want.

He finds himself rolling over, careful as to not wake Victor, and his hand slipping into his pants.

Muffled breath against a soft down-filled pillow and dirtied motions.

Disgust.

That is what he feels when he finishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Piers's song from the last chapter actually is his one canon song from the games...still a bit disappointed it wasn't voice-acted, but on the other hand, I like to keep imagining him as JP Belial from GBF, and we have his Twilight Wings voices anyway...I just love Parade's Lust...I also always wanna drop my notes in the chapters but they're super long (symbolism, themes, explanations, backstory, etc.). Would ruin a bit if I left them in so early and all.
> 
> Though, I am considering whaling in Pokemon Masters right now since anniversary is going on, and I wanna save for Adult Trio, Victor, and the other mainline male protagonists I'm missing for whenever a banner reruns/they get in...


	13. The Hanged Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think many of the tarot cards should be be reversed for Piers honestly, but I don't like the look of that for the title chapters. The unity of form looks better to me.

When he wakes at noon, Victor is already gone, white pajamas neatly folded and left upon a similarly made bed. Piers isn’t particularly surprised by Victor’s absence—despite his own insistence, Victor often leaves early, and their topic of conversation last night hadn’t been the cheeriest sort—but it doesn’t mollify his own emotions, a mixture of guilt, worry, and general agitation.

Instead, it only heightens them. He knows Victor is upset—no matter the reason or for sensibility itself, people, especially children, are often upset when denied—but he tries not to worry, assumes that Victor, like any other day, would return once night comes.

Hours pass, sky shifting from palettes of cheery blue and pristine white to dull orange tinged with pink and finally to dusky violet blended with indigo, and Piers eventually finds lying in bed, restless and sleepless.

He doesn’t quite want to leave his house, not out of a lack of care for Victor, but for a worry of potentially missing him, have Victor arrive to an empty house. Certainly, Victor has a key to his home—Raihan had been skeptical about the idea—but he doesn’t want him to sit alone in this house, faucet dripping and walls creaking because of the wind outside.

Furthermore, how would he even find Victor? Hammerlocke is a large city, one of Galar’s largest actually, and Victor doesn’t have a set route, not outside of their walks together. While Victor often frequents the same areas, it wouldn’t mean that he would be able to find him.

Finally, he doesn’t know where Victor lives. He had asked once—a few times actually—before, but much like with his truancy, Victor never quite answers truthfully. He only shrugs or mumbles, some half-heard answer. He only knows bits and pieces about the place and him, offhand mentions he gathers from listening—Victor’s disdain for his mother’s nightly friends and his propensity for wandering, far and away from the fractured mundanity of family.

Worrisome, all entirely worrisome.

Thus, he doesn’t quite drift off until a few hours later, overly sweaty even after he rids himself of his blankets and overly anxious—thoughts drifting back to Victor. He worries, uncertainty meshing contradictorily with certainty. He knows the wrongness of his fixation—the edges he couldn’t quite file down despite their recentness, seeds planted and finally bloomed into half-view—and the rightness of his concern.

Victor is a child and that is essence of everything—right and wrong and everything in-between.

He doesn’t show up the next night either, doesn’t wait for him after work.

Really, he shouldn’t worry—Victor must be busy. He couldn’t always be free, and even children must have business from time to time—but he does, choosing to slow his pace. It is a foolish idea—Victor isn’t even necessarily in the area—but he finds himself glancing around for the familiar bright red of Victor’s shirt anyhow.

Even when he arrives home—door closing behind him and lock clicking—Victor doesn’t show up. Instead, he prepares dinner, steamed rice with steamed asparagus and pan-fried mackerel. Steamed rice isn’t the best choice for a quick meal—it would take twenty minutes at the very least to finish before he could begin on the rest—but it gives him time to wait.

Victor doesn’t normally stay for dinner with them, but he doesn’t leave whenever Piers decides to have a late-night meal. He doesn’t eat, always shaking his head and mumbling an “I already ate,” instead preferring to simply watch and chatter.

When he turns off the stovetop, fish fried golden, Victor doesn’t appear either, no knock upon the door or even the click of a turning doorknob. Instead, he simply finds himself alone at the kitchen table, plate and utensils set out for one and without conversation.

Much like with the hours spent waiting for a knock, the days pass similarly, slow and filled with increasing worry. Really, he hadn’t expected his refusal to cause this much trouble—he understands first infatuations even if Victor’s is different—but he couldn’t exactly reverse it, both because of Victor’s disappearance from his life and because of the meaning.

He doesn’t want to fuck him.

That’s what he tells himself anyhow even when he ends up standing in his shower, cold water running down his skin and dripping onto the tiles before slithering into the drain alongside dark, stray strands of hair.

He doesn’t want to— _shouldn’t want to_ —touch him, _fuck him_ , but the thoughts, ideas rather, come anyhow: hands combing through hair, wet tongue pushing into a much smaller and eager mouth, and sweat intermingling with sweat as Victor clumsily pushes back against his thrusts, soft thighs roughly meeting sharp hips.

It’s abhorrent in its entirety, the intrusiveness of everything and the way it causes his heartbeat to quicken, but he couldn’t quite stem the flow of thoughts.

He only finds his hand drifting lower, sometimes wrapping around his cock before tugging and other days returning to rest against the wall of his shower. He isn’t quite sure what’s worse—the wait for his erection to cease or the days when he fails to wait.

Nonetheless, no matter the outcome, one thing remains the same.

He finds himself thinking of Victor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To me, Piers is a character who is often stopped by his own faults and an inability to act and always blaming other circumstances rather than his own inability. Not everything can be avoided, but I think it would be good to look at how he acts to see what the base conflict (or one of them anyhow) of this work. It's Man VS Self alongside a few others. The katabasis also exists in this work, and it isn't tagged for show. It's just a "less traditional" katabasis. Those are acceptable I think and have been done in a much more well-written way (and with different subject matters of course) by writers such as Ralph Ellison and his "Invisible Man."
> 
> My notes for this fic could honestly span for a few dozen pages honestly. There's a lot going on in the mundane and how everything goes together.


	14. Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

Three days before Raihan’s and Marnie’s expected return and on his way back from work, Piers finds himself roughly pulled into an alleyway, cigarette slipping from his lips and head banging into a brick wall. Perhaps, he should have expected it sooner, but luck often breeds complacency.

Despite Raihan’s frequent ribbing about his physique, he isn’t physically weak, but it isn’t like he could do much against four people. Even the pepper spray in his pocket wouldn’t be much help, not with the knife now pressed against his throat—just enough to feel the edge rather than to draw blood.

He couldn’t even see them clearly, clothed as they are: shapeless garb and faces covered and barely visible with the light from the main road. He notices the grip on his shoulder naturally, and the hand—an accomplice’s—that searches through his pockets.

He hears a metallic thump as his pepper spray is tossed onto the floor before he feels his jacket lighten further, a consequence of his wallet being pulled out and flipped through.

“Shit, how poor are you?”

Piers doesn’t reply. Really, it isn’t like the movies. He could try to break free, but what would that accomplish? He doesn’t have a knife of his own, and he isn’t especially adept at fighting—nothing that would help in this moment anyway, no martial arts or self-defense that would help against a group. He’s scrapped before, but he isn’t stupid, overly foolhardy.

It isn’t like the movies. What could he do if he actually broke free? Surprise would not be enough for escape, not with the other two standing near the alleyway’s entrance, and he doesn’t want to run further into the back alleys. He isn’t familiar with them.

“Really, twenty-four dollars? Thought you’d have more considering you came out of a club.”

No reply, but his assailants don’t need one. He only feels a hand check his pants’ pockets, pulling out his lighter, cigarettes, and then cellphone soon after.

He expects it to end soon—he doesn’t have much on him thankfully—but it doesn’t.

Instead, he hears a noise from the alleyway’s opening, a loud and posturing, if somewhat trite, “Beat it, kid.”

He couldn’t quite turn his head, but he feels his pulse quicken. Really, how many kids stay out this late and in this area?

“No” —oh fuck, he doesn’t even have to turn to look to imagine Victor’s head shaking—“can you all please give him his stuff back?”

“Can we giv— _it’s a mugging_.”

“Yeah, I know,” Victor says, overly blasé, “but can you please give it to him? I won’t ask again.”

He feels the grip on his shoulder tighten, and he inwardly curses. He knows Victor doesn’t carry a cellphone on him—no calls to the police or photographs of their faces—but his assailants don’t. But still, the alternatives aren’t much better.

No matter his bravado or what he thinks, Victor couldn’t overpower four grown adults or outrun them.

He almost calls out to Victor then—running now would be the best option no matter how slim the chances of success are—but before he can, he hears a sound akin to a branch snapping and then loud cursing.

Alongside the hands, the knife lifts from his throat as he hears Victor speak once more, still too calm for his age and for the situation.

“Don’t touch me. I don’t like being touched.”

Simple and plain and arbitrarily childlike in its request and form.

Another snap followed by a sound he could only describe as akin to a pumpkin being smashed—crisp yet paradoxically mushy—though no curse comes this time. Instead, he only smells the distinctive and metallic odor of blood mixed with acidity, piss.

When he turns to face Victor, he doesn’t vomit at the sight, but it is only barely.

Blood pooling together with piss and bits of white from a slumped over body, one of the assailants. He couldn’t quite discern the features, not with how damaged the face is, akin to a crumpled-up ball of aluminum foil as if someone had squeezed it.

He doesn’t expect to see Victor with his hand wrapped around someone’s throat either or for him to slam the body headfirst into nearby brick wall.

Outside of the absurdity of everything—Victor is, at most, merely five feet tall, and these are grown men—there is a gruesomeness in it: in the ease in which the skull breaks, spilling contents like an overripe grapefruit; in the bluntness of the noise, crunching; and in the simplicity of the motion.

There is no callousness in it, no excess cruelty. Instead, it is simple, akin to a horse’s tail swatting flies or a cat stepping over a hole.

There is no thought given to the motion even as the blood splatters onto the brick and onto Victor’s shirt and skin, dark blots upon an already red shirt and upon pale white.

A thump resounds through the alleyway as Victor’s hold loosens, and he turns to face them.

Much like with his previous action, there is no thought—neither care nor viciousness—given when he steps over the bodies and the bits, splinters of bone crunching underneath brown loafers and blood squelching like puddles of rainwater, and stops in front of them.

Piers doesn’t have to be able to see to feel the tenseness in the air—all senses working to comprehend the situation.

Victor holds out his hands.

“Give me everything,” Victor pauses for a moment before continuing, “and please dismember your friends and hide them for me. You were all having an argument over money, and it escalated into a murder.”

Despite the morbidity of the situation, Piers feels a sense of incredulousness at Victor’s statement, and it only increases when his assailants place his belongings into Victor’s hands before moving to their friends. Thankfully, they don’t begin their task here instead choosing to hoist the bodies over their shoulders and go elsewhere.

“They’ll have a headache after this, but they won’t remember us or anything,” Victor explains, noticing Piers’s unease. “Hammerlocke’s police don’t really care either as long as they have some suspects. They won’t go after you. Trust me.”

Victor holds out his belongings, but Piers doesn’t take them.

“I won’t hurt you or anything,” Victor says as he continues to hold out his hands. “Really, I promise. I already ate too.”

Piers still doesn’t take them. He doesn’t entirely understand the meaning of Victor’s statement, but it isn’t like their current situation is particularly normal.

“Victor…what is all this?” It isn’t the most intelligent sort of question, but Piers thinks he’s justified considering the current situation.

Victor falters slightly. “I’m more mature than I look. I already told you that.”

“That doesn’t explain anythin’, Victor. You know what I mean.”

Victor shakes his head. “I-I’m—” he pauses. “Can we continue this somewhere else?” He shuffles slightly. “Sorry about the mess. I forgot to wipe my hands first before I grabbed your stuff, but at least the screen isn’t cracked.”

Awful. It’s an entirely awful attempt to diffuse tension, but Piers doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he chooses to take back his belongings, inwardly grimacing at the stickiness he feels on his hands.

He doesn’t think he’ll keep the cigarettes or the lighter, and the leather of his wallet is rather stained.

Victor shuffles again, and Piers does his best to ignore the blood dripping down his cheek.

“Can we go?” Victor asks, nervousness tinging his voice. It isn’t completely like the nervousness of their first meeting, but it isn’t quite unlike it—voice high and lilting.

Perhaps it is selfish of him—he doesn’t want to stay long, not with the slug trail of red in the alleyway—but he nods before unbuttoning his jacket and passing it to Victor.

He doesn’t mind when Victor uses it to wipe his face before donning it. It’s better than the alternative, and he could always replace the jacket later.

In his opinion, a blood-soaked child isn’t explainable in the slightest.

But really, nothing about the current situation is explainable even as he steps over the bits of pink and white, mushy and not quite unlike the inside of a watermelon, and back onto the main road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit short, but some of the later chapters are rather long, but those little bits from the earlier chapters are finally coming to a head here (the odd murders around town, some of the headaches, the offhand mention of muggers, etc.).
> 
> There's a lot of those sprinkled in the earlier chapters.


	15. Temperance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

They don’t speak even as they sit across from another upon his bed—he changed into his nightwear with hair loose and Victor freshly showered and once again garbed in borrowed pajamas. Outside of the silence, tenseness permeating the air, and the faint creaking of the bed, a consequence of Victor’s fidgeting, it is rather like last week and the days before it—they in the company of one another.

Despite the outward similarities, however, it could not be considered the same in the slightest—not in the way his heart beats too quickly, not in the sweat forming upon his palms and the back of his neck, and not in the way his eyes shift elsewhere away from Victor and toward the walls, the white sheets, anywhere but him.

Another creak, overly loud, before Victor speaks first, fingers messing with the hem of his long-sleeved shirt, fabric slipping slightly and baring his collarbone and the raised, jagged skin of his neck. Tonight, his clothes aren’t one of Marnie’s instead being a spare set of his own clothes. They’re rather large, thin as well, and the color, simple black, doesn’t quite accentuate his frame like Marnie’s does—too large, shapeless, and dark in coloration—but it serves its purpose well enough.

He hadn’t wanted to leave Victor dressed in his stained garments for too long—a matter of both practicality and his own unease. As foolish, overly silly, as it is, he doesn’t want Victor’s clothes to stain further or for the blood to drip onto the flooring nor does he want to remember how Victor had looked before in the alleyway—no callousness and no disgust, only apathy garbed in simple red.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Victor says, earlier sentiments repeating and silence shattering. “I didn’t mean to keep everything a secret—I mean I did at first—but afterwards, I just…didn’t know how to tell you. You were just so _nice_ , and I didn’t want you to hate me an—”

Piers shakes his head. “That still doesn’t explain anythin’, Victor.”

He doesn’t want to rush Victor—hell, he feels a bit of guilt at the way Victor flinches at the mention of his name—but he also knows his inclinations, overly rambling and chattery. In almost any other occasion, he wouldn’t mind listening to Victor speak, voice whispery and quick and emotions obvious, but tonight is a rather different occasion.

He doesn’t know Victor as someone willing to hurt others—he knows him as someone thoughtful, if somewhat awkward—but that isn’t quite right, not after Victor’s actions tonight.

Certainly, they had been muggers, but he hadn’t expected Victor to murder them, to be _capable_ of doing so as he had. He understands the meaning of Victor’s actions, but still, the manner and circumstances of the situation are incomprehensible—unnerving—to him.

Kids shouldn’t be able to do what Victor had.

Victor shifts again, leaning forward. “I’m more mature than I look.”

“Victor, please don’t avoid the subject.”

“I…okay,” Victor says after a pause, tongue once again licking at chapped lips. “I really do mean what I say though. I’m not lying to you.”

Another silence descends, seconds stretching into minutes, and Piers almost speaks again until Victor interrupts.

“I’m a vampire.”

Simple, juvenile, and wholly unbelievable—a bit trite and too much like the movies as well— if it were not for the events he had witnessed earlier. He wouldn’t say it’s entirely believable—he isn’t Gordie—but he doesn’t have another explanation. He only feels his heartbeat quicken further, echoing like a drum or a shriek inside a cavern.

Victor licks his lips again before opening his mouth, revealing two sharp fangs that soon quickly disappear, extra teeth withdrawing into sheaths in the gumline and revealing the normal incisors behind them. Piers couldn’t explain that either, but Victor’s words and actions don’t diminish his discomfort. Instead, he only feels his unease intensify.

He doesn’t quite know the boy in front of him. Certainly, he knows him as Victor, but he doesn’t know _who_ Victor is, not truly.

“I won’t hurt you,” Victor repeats once more. “I _don’t_ want to hurt you at all. I just…I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Victor shakes his head. “ _You are_. I can hear your heartbeat.”

Piers doesn’t expect Victor to move then, and he finds a weight settling into his lap—clothed knees pressing slightly and awkwardly against his inner thighs—and hands upon his shoulders, nails digging lightly into the fabric.

It isn’t enough to hurt. Victor isn’t particularly bony—he’s more on the soft side if anything, thin and lacking in firm muscle—but he feels himself tensing anyway. He couldn’t quite lean away or push Victor back—not with what he knows what Victor is capable of—but he finds himself oddly, contradictorily disinclined to the action anyhow.

“Please, can you look at me?” Victor’s breath tickles his lips as he speaks. “You keep looking elsewhere, and I just…I really like you, Piers. I don’t—I wouldn’t—be able to stand it if you were to hate me.”

Piers feels Victor press his lips to the corner of his mouth. It isn’t a practiced motion. Instead, it would be better described as clumsy, a child’s imitation, rather than as anything truly seductive.

“I’m older than I look. I’ve been old for a long time,” Victor hesitates again. “You can fuck me if you want. Please…I just don’t want you to leave. I want you look at me like before. I want you to like me.”

A silence descends then, and Piers feels Victor shift slightly, knees rubbing slightly—unintentionally—against his crotch, thin chest bumping into his, and grip tightening on his shirt. Victor’s eyes, round and wet—not quite teary—stare at him, brown earth gazing at blue sky.

He couldn’t quite look away even when he knows the wrongness of it.

“I don’t like you in that way, Victor,” he says finally. “I don’t want to”—the word is vulgar, vile, even as it leaves his mouth—“fuck you.”

“You’re lying. I could hear you the other day. I wasn’t asleep.” Victor shakes his head again before looking at him once more. “I can still hear your heart now, and I can smell you as you are.”

His next words come, not with the tone of accusation but with the simple tone of fact.

“You’re aroused right now.”

Piers feels Victor shift once more, knees bumping again, and press another closemouthed kiss to the other corner of his mouth. Scent stinging like wasps, Piers smells the aroma of lavender and rosemary, his own choice of shampoo and the one that Victor had borrowed tonight for his shower, as he withdraws once more. Idly, Piers once again notices the scarring on his neck—closed-up puncture wounds mocking.

“I’m older than you,” Victor says. “Really, I-I don’t mind if you fuck me. I don’t mind if it’s you.” Another shift, and Victor leans closer, lips nearly touching his. “I don’t care if it hurts. I just want to be close to you, your equal in everything. I want you to look at me again.”

Piers doesn’t move. He couldn’t, not with the way Victor grips at his shirt. “It’s wrong.”

“What’s wrong about it?” Victor’s breath once again tickles his mouth. “I like you, and you like me. Isn’t that enough?”

“You’re too…” Piers trails off. He couldn’t describe him as “young,” not without it being erroneous, and he couldn’t say he doesn’t _want_ Victor in some capacity, in some sense of the word. Much like before, Victor would only refute his statement.

“I’m not.” Victor’s eyes stare intently into his, and Piers couldn’t quite turn his head, couldn’t quite turn away. “I like you and that should be enough.”

Victor doesn’t kiss him then—doesn’t close the minuscule gap. He only continues speaking.

“I want you to accept me of your own volition.” Another breath upon his lips. It would be easy enough for Victor to lean forward or for he himself to finish and close the distance. “I don’t want—I _won’t_ —force you to, but please”—Victor’s voice wavers then—“consider me as I am. I like you. Please…look at me. Look at me as I am.”

Victor leans forward then, closing the distance, and presses a kiss directly onto his lips—soft and chaste and plain—as his grip on his shirt loosens.

It would be easy enough to rebuke him then—Victor, despite his strength, still only weighs as much as a child does—but he doesn’t.

Horrible, horrible, horrible.

That is what it is, what he would describe his actions as.

He doesn’t turn Victor away.

Instead, he only opens his mouth, tongue moving forward and prodding at chapped lips that soon part eagerly.

Horrible, utterly horrible.

Yet, he finds himself unable to stop even as he grabs Victor’s hips, nails digging into clothed flesh, and feels Victor’s tongue push against his, sloppy, and inexperienced.

He doesn’t stop even when he hears Victor moan, muffled and soft yet youthfully, distinctively high in pitch.

Awful, truly awful, but he doesn’t stop.

He shouldn’t stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victor's actually based on the more "classical" vampire alongside the Bram Stoker vampire for the most part. I like classic fiction and literature, so I usually toss that in whenever I can.
> 
> But still, I don't quite like the "benign" monster archetype who is wholly good and misunderstood. I've always been more fond of more nuanced portrayals or characters such as Frankenstein's creature. Is Victor "wholly good" or something in that vein? Maybe. I also dislike weighing in on "100% this is what the character is like" ideas even if I have my own interpretation and intent.
> 
> And Victor's speech pattern in this fic sometimes goes a bit "formal" and awkward even before this chapter, and it's intentional. He's not quite what he seems, and I think the line between "child" and "immortal" is a fascinating one, but I can't really talk on it until I get to the last few chapters...hum...but we are finally going into gear for the sex scene (soon)...personally I like it since a lot of character development, characterization, and nuance happens in it alongside the sex, and it's long. I like "show" more than "tell" when I do my really serious works...
> 
> As a side note, I did finish a Grimsley fic that's gonna go up tomorrow or the day after which is nice...it's just like...probably something no one besides me wants...


	16. The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes...the sex scene. The one thing I keep talking about in these notes. Personally, there's a lot going on underneath the surface of everything. I always dislike the idea that sex cannot be used to accentuate the plot (rather common sentiment among certain portions of fandom and people for whatever reason; I understand dislike, but I don't like how condescending it can get sometimes, ya know?), so I like to have my sex scenes interplay with themes and plot (this fic, Oedipus Negative, The Year King, Partiality Paradox, Kiss Peony, etc.). Rather spiteful, but a sizable portion of my catalog is spite writing honestly...I actually started writing fic again partially because of spite tbh...and my OTP is Piers/Victor (and I have an essay-sized explanation for it as well honestly b/c of possible dynamics).
> 
> Sex always has a "symbolic/greater" meaning in my fics. I like PWP too, but it's just not my "style" to leave it as it is, ya know?

Kissing Victor as he does now shouldn’t arouse him as it does—it should repulse him, disgust him entirely—but it doesn’t, not entirely anyhow. Instead, he finds himself drawing Victor closer, already scant distance quickly dropping to zero.

There is a natural repulsion in it naturally—that hadn’t changed despite his body’s response—but there is a pleasure in it as well, one paradoxically stemming from vice.

There is both a familiarity as they are now, bodies pressed together and moving awkwardly off-pace—Victor too frantic and too eager to please and he comparatively lethargic yet willing—and a peculiarity, a perverseness, to everything.

Victor isn’t like the men and women he has been with before.

There is a similar warmth to Victor’s skin, albeit low and humming like a freshly set kettle rather than anything truly searing like his previous partners, and a similar passion between them—frantic for friction, heady, and clumsy with hands pawing at skin alongside bunching fabric and the rush of noise—but it isn’t as it should be.

Too small, too soft, and too slender.

Victor isn’t comparable to a woman—it would be an insult to everyone involved—but he isn’t comparable to a man either.

Too small, too soft, and too slender.

The sex is correct—even with the fabric still between them, he could feel Victor rubbing against his stomach—but the face and body aren’t quite right or rather, Victor isn’t grown enough.

The hands are slight, smaller than his sister’s at that age with slim fingers each tipped, by a pink, pointed nail; the face is rounder, lacking in the familiar angularness of adulthood; and the mouth overly small, a consequence of Victor’s false—suspended—age rather than naturalness.

Even the kiss isn’t quite right. Certainly, he expects Victor to be inexperienced—he couldn’t separate Victor from his idea of him—but he doesn’t expect the faint, metallic taste or the relative dryness of Victor’s mouth. It isn’t entirely dry, but it isn’t as wet as a human mouth should be.

He could attribute it to nervousness certainly but that isn’t quite right, not with Victor’s current motions, excited.

Furthermore, Victor doesn’t quite breath right—forgetfulness perhaps or a lack of necessity leading to a sparse, inhumanly so, rhythm—and his heart itself doesn’t quite beat right, too slow and even for their current situation. Undoubtedly, he feels it quicken, slow yet sure, but it isn’t as a human’s should be.

It isn’t quite right—shouldn’t be right—if the little knowledge he remembers from Biology I is correct.

The teeth—two, sharp incisors—that scrape at his mouth and prick his tongue aren’t typical either. Instead, they only draw blood and a pained noise of surprise from Piers, and he accidently nips Victor’s tongue with his teeth—blood intermingling and off-taste, not quite metallic yet lightly searing upon his tongue.

It doesn’t feel right when he swallows it either, but what else could he do? Spit it out on his sheets? He still has Victor on his lap as well.

When Victor breaks their kiss, he does so with a small grimace, nose crinkled and lips slightly parted; blood—a mixture of his and Victor’s—barely visible on the teeth and on the lips.

“Your blood tastes awful,” Victor says simply even as he once again licks his lips, tongue moving over his bottom lip first and then over the upper before withdrawing. Idly, Piers, notices the small wound, toothmarks, on the tip of his tongue. He hadn’t meant to bite down as hard as he had. “You smoke too much.”

It is a bit of childish, nonsensical statement, especially when one considers their current actions, but perhaps he shouldn’t expect anything else from Victor.

Victor has always been odd, prone to digression and to his own whims.

“Thanks?” It isn’t the best response, but he doesn’t know how to response to Victor’s words.

“Ah, sorry.” Victor shakes his head. “It just worries me since I always see you smoke. You smoke on the way home, before breakfast, and even on the porch at night after Marnie goes to bed. It’s not very good for you. You’re still human, you know.”

Victor sounds too much like Marnie then and perhaps that is the reason for his defensiveness.

“I don’t smoke that much.”

“You do. You sometimes go through twenty a day. That’s an entire pack.” Victor frowns, shifting once more on his lap. “It’s not good at all.”

“It’s my choice.” It’s a weak defense, but he doesn’t have much else to say really. It truly isn’t a good habit, but he doesn’t quite want to stop. “What about you? Your blood doesn’t taste great either.”

“It’s not mine. I already ate.” Victor pauses for a moment, sheepish, before continuing, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble or to bite you—that really was an accident—but it’s a worrying habit.”

Piers hadn’t expected that answer from Victor, but truly, he should have expected it. He knows enough about vampires—god, he still couldn’t take that word seriously—from his conversations with Gordie and from the TV shows Marnie watches on the weekends.

Well, enough for conjecture and inference anyhow.

Despite the absurdity of the word and their current conversation, however, they, at the very least, remind him of Victor’s true identity.

He isn’t a child, not in the truest sense anyhow.

But still, he couldn’t quite separate the Victor he knows from the one before him now.

What a foolish sentiment, but he couldn’t separate everything—the slightness of his frame from the apathy of earlier, the whimsical childishness and his tinny voice from his supposed age, and desire from the familial.

Though, he doesn’t have time to ponder it further—trite navel-gazing—when Victor kisses him again. It isn’t quite with the same fervor as before, not because of a lack of interest—the slight trembling of Victor’s hands is enough to disprove that even as they move underneath his shirt, cool flesh meeting warm skin—but because of cautiousness, a desire to avoid another needless nipping.

Much like before, he couldn’t describe Victor as anywhere near adept.

There is no finesse in how Victor’s hands move, soft palms and slender fingers—long nails scraping—moving against his stomach and sides solely for contact rather than for a partner’s pleasure, or in how Victor kisses, tongue jabbing forward towards the throat and with no real purpose. Idly, he notes the slight indentations—his unintentional doing—on Victor’s tongue as it haphazardly pushes against his and at the walls of his cheek and the roof of his mouth.

All in all, it isn’t a particularly exceptional showing, but he finds a pleasure, as wicked as that is to say, in it as well.

Paradoxically innocent, characteristically sweet, and wholly inexperienced.

Despite the perversity of everything, or perhaps accentuated because of it, Victor embodies his appearance—in the selfishness of his touch, in the awkward eagerness of his kiss, and in the slight swell of his pants.

He couldn’t be described as similar to a man or to a woman.

Too inexperienced in a way that bellied a lack of knowledge of the subject rather than simply a matter shyness or coyness and too different in physicality to be described as either.

The hands are too soft, the tongue and teeth are too little, and the voice is too high.

He understands petiteness—his last girlfriend was on the smaller side in both stature and build—but Victor isn’t describable as such, not without insult.

He is small in the same way children are small—body not yet fully formed and growth still upcoming.

A noise, softly sweet, leaves Victor’s mouth as Piers moves a hand, the left, from Victor’s hips and to the front of his pants, fingers slipping into the waistband—up to and then pass mid-palm and without the annoyance of boxers or perhaps briefs—with fingertips gently prodding at the groin, and the other to the small of Victor’s back. He doesn’t feel much, if any, hair there even as Victor pushes his hips forward to force more contact.

It isn’t the most comfortable of positions—his hand is trapped tightly between their bodies, and Victor, despite his relative caution, kisses in a manner that is still unpleasantly, unintentionally rough—but it isn’t the worst.

Rather, there is an appeal to it, to his inexperience, as well: in the way Victor’s nails curiously scrape along the pale flesh of his abdomen, careful as to avoid puncturing; in the smallness of Victor’s frame, body fitting easily against his; and in the way Victor ruts against his hand, fluids wetting his hand and motions not unlike a stud’s first mating, zealous and overly careless.

It isn’t quite right to enjoy it as much as he does—shame and fear meshing with desire and pleasure—but nothing is right about their current situation.

He shouldn’t _want_ to be wanted—needed—but he does.

When they separate, Piers pulling away first this time, Victor softly whines before the noise swiftly turns into another moan as Piers nips at neck, wet tongue sliding over raised skin, and as his hand grasps at Victor’s cock before gently moving in an even rhythm—motions helped by the wetness, pre-cum, on his hand. With his other hand, he presses his fingers against Victor’s lips and finds them greedily drawn into a warm mouth, tongue swirling around the digits and coating them in saliva.

Around the nail and underneath the pale edges, upon the pads of the fingers, and with teeth grazing at the flesh.

In the objective sense, his actions aren’t particularly exciting or creative—handjobs combined with a simple hickey would be considered rather vanilla foreplay or even simply the sloppy components of a teenager’s first tryst by most—but they rile Victor up well enough, small body writhing upon his lap and brushing inadvertently against his erection.

His forefinger presses, calloused pad rubbing, at the slit of Victor’s cock, as he moves his hand—pace still languid even as Victor pants, noise vibrating around Piers’s fingers and nails scraping at his skin and now leaving reddened marks, ten prickling reminders of the occasion.

It isn’t particularly hard to grasp Victor as he does—forefinger still rubbing, palm lightly pressed against the veins of his cock, and motion pulling—but Victor isn’t especially endowed for obvious reasons. Instead, his cock fits tidily into the palm of hand.

He hears Victor whimper, voice gasping and slightly muffled, as he bites once more—another nip—before his tongue trails to the center of the scarring. When he pushes his tongue against the lowermost mark, Victor’s nails dig into his flesh slightly, now drawing blood. It isn’t enough to end the occasion—they aren’t deep enough for that—but it is enough to draw a groan and for him to still his hand and withdraw his fingers from Victor’s mouth.

“S-sorry,” comes Victor’s half-mumbled apology. His fingertips trail lightly along the scratch marks, smearing the blood somewhat, before he presses them against the wounds lightly, an attempt to stem the flow.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.” He truly doesn’t. He’s never been especially normal when it comes to his more risqué interests. “Are you fine with this?”

It is a rather late inquiry, but Victor hadn’t stopped him before.

When Victor nods, Piers continues, hand moving once more in the same easygoing rhythm and tongue returning to the puncture marks.

The sensation upon his tongue isn’t especially pleasant, too uncanny, but he couldn’t say he dislikes it either, not with the responses his actions elicit from Victor—the tremor of his body and the tiny, scattered pleas for him to continue interspersed inbetween the pleased noises, childish in their intensity.

Noisy. Victor is entirely too noisy, and he’s glad that both his housemate and sister are away.

He doesn’t think he would be able to stand it if his sister were to find out.

Victor’s flesh is warm as Piers slides his tongue along the skin to the middle of his neck, teeth grazing and rough turning into smooth. He presses an openmouthed kiss to the area—the Adam’s apple hasn’t formed—before moving once more to the unblemished side of his neck.

When Piers stops once more, teeth pressing lightly against the skin and not enough to mar, he hears another plea from Victor, another breathless “Please” as he feels Victor’s nails dig once more into his sides. Though, it isn’t enough to break the skin this time.

Another “Please,” half-mangled by the moan that follows it.

When he bites down—truly bites down hard enough to blemish the skin—Victor screams, voice high, and he feels a warmth, cum, against his forefinger before it splatters against the confines of his pants and the palm of his hand, sticky and staining.

It isn’t the most spectacular of orgasms, neither overly long nor overly voluminous, but it is lovely enough in its nuances—the wispy repetition of his name, the low thrum of an uneven heartbeat, and the nails that dig into his skin, overly needy and wanting despite everything.

Even when Victor’s orgasm subsides and his voice turns into simple breathlessness, Piers doesn’t remove his mouth from his neck. Instead, he only continues to suck at the area, tongue wetting the skin as it begins to purple.

When Piers finishes, teeth releasing from his neck and hand withdrawing from his pants, he feels Victor’s hands move from underneath his shirt and settle upon his chest as the boy shifts, movement rubbing once again at his erection.

As hard as he is, Piers couldn’t help but groan, noise shuddering.

“I can help with that,” Victor says, shifting once more.

Piers shakes his head. “It’s fine. I can take care of it myself.”

He doesn’t quite want Victor’s teeth or his nails around his cock. While he assumes Victor wouldn’t intentionally hurt him, he doesn’t want to risk an accident.

Excitement often leads to those, and he had felt it well enough minutes earlier.

“No, really. I don’t mind,” Victor says before pausing. “I..I don’t mind if it’s you. You can fuck me.”

Piers feels Victor’s hands tighten upon his chest, fabric bunching together in his grip.

He repeats himself once more, “I don’t mind. Just…do you want to stay with me?”

It is an odd sort of question in both its phrasing and in the inflection of Victor’s voice, want intertwined with a peculiar desperation.

Want; want; want.

He wants to be wanted.

Piers still doesn’t understand the meaning—he doesn’t know why Victor would think he would be kicked out afterwards—but he understands want well enough.

Even as they are now—messy and touching and breath fluttering lightly against marked flesh—he understands want well enough.

Want; want; want.

The word—emotive and cruel and apathetic—overwhelms his senses, tidings akin to winter’s first snowfall, but he understands desire.

He wants to be desired.

Thus, he finds himself pressing his lips against Victor’s, words half-mumbled against a small mouth.

“I won’t leave you.”

It isn’t completely understandable, but he feels Victor draw back slightly—only the tiniest of distances—before speaking once more.

“But do you want to _stay_?” Victor emphasizes the last word—lips parting slightly and revealing the barest hint of pointed white, incisors peeking from the gumline—as he loosens his grip on Piers’s shirt, hands soon falling and coming to rest upon his clothed thighs.

It is a simple response when he kisses Victor again, closemouthed and chaste, before withdrawing once more. Objectively quiet yet deafening in the near-silence of the room—heart resounding inside his chest—that is what his reply is.

Simple yet concise.

“Yes,” he says, “I want to stay.”

He wants to be needed. Even if he couldn’t understand Victor’s oddness, he could understand desire—need—well enough.

Another kiss—Piers initiating—and he finds his hands moving, right hand pulling up Victor’s shirt to reveal a thin, pale chest and the wet fingertips of his left trailing up a soft stomach and to the chest, smearing cum onto the skin, before he pinches the left nipple between a thumb and forefinger and pulls lightly.

It isn’t enough to hurt, but his actions draw another wordless noise from Victor and another shift, knees bumping against his stomach and groin.

High and whining and eager. That is how he would describe Victor as he moves his mouth to his right nipple, tongue circling, and plays with the left, fingers pulling at the nub and fingertips rubbing around it. Rolling the nub between his lips and lightly upon his tongue, he feels Victor squirm, noisy and panting.

Perhaps it is overly teasing of him as well, but after a few moments of suckling, he finds himself gently taking the nipple between his teeth with just enough pressure to elicit another pleased noise from Victor before he presses his tongue against the nub once more and swirls, wetting the now swollen flesh further. With his left, he rolls Victor’s other nipple between his fingers before tugging, nails digging into the dark bud and careful as to not damage the skin.

Another noise from Victor—whining—and Piers feels his hips press against his stomach, cock already half-hard again and stickiness evident despite the fabric between them. It is rather impatient of him, but Piers could say much of the same for himself. Despite the looseness of his pants, he’s uncomfortably hard—appallingly eager to release and thoughts repeatedly, unwantedly wandering to the idea of fucking Victor.

He shouldn’t be as excited as he is—he knows the inappropriateness of it, had voiced understanding of such a sentiment not even an hour earlier—but he feels the warmth in his stomach tighten, pulsate, at the thought of rutting into a willing partner.

He shouldn’t.

Mouth withdrawing from Victor’s now swollen and protruding nipple, Piers leans forward then and lightly urges him onto his back, and he complies, body coming to rest upon the sheets with white fabric clenched tightly in his hands.

Positioned as they are—he nearly on top of Victor and with his hands now straddling his chest—Piers notes once more how small Victor is, how deceptively fragile he looks.

Pink lips panting and parted to reveal a small, similarly pink tongue, nipples perked and chest coated in a mixture of saliva and sweat and cum, and body trembling—shirt pulled up and pants dirtied and loose, overly large for such a small frame—he embodies innocence, violated yet wanting.

Leaning forward, Piers presses his lips against the side of Victor’s neck, rough skin tickling, before he licks at the skin and trails downward, saliva dripping and teeth grazing at warm flesh, until he reaches Victor’s chest and his right nipple.

It doesn’t take much to draw another response from Victor as he engulfs the bud in mouth, tongue lapping around the already sensitive skin, as his left hand moves farther down to caress at Victor’s stomach, forefinger briefly and slightly dipping into Victor’s navel before withdrawing. Fingertips trailing lightly upon the skin, his hand eventually comes to Victor’s pants, fingers slipping into the waistband once more though he doesn’t pull.

At the contact, he feels Victor buck upwards and against his body, needy and increasingly wanton.

Misleading and deceptively fragile once more. He’s fairly certain Victor could reverse their positions if he wants to. Despite everything, he also remembers the hours of before.

That hasn’t quite changed, but neither has his own understanding of everything.

Need; need; _need_.

He understands need in its entirety.

Another nip, teeth pressing against the bud, before he continues, hands groping and mouth trailing downward and leaving behind a mix of kisses and saliva—flesh beneath shaking lightly and warm, not quite hot.

Mouth reaching just below the navel, Piers pauses, lips still and fingers hooked into the waistband, before he swiftly pulls Victor’s pants downwards. Lifting his head, Piers looks downward, examining.

Small and raised, nearly hairless, and still wet from his earlier orgasm.

Much like with his hand, Victor’s cock fits neatly, entirely, into his mouth, flesh salty because of sweat and leftover cum and warm because of the congregating blood.

Piers swirls his tongue around the head, occasionally pressing the tip of his tongue against the slit to lick at the leaking fluid, before he licks at the underside of the shaft and moves further down the length and to the base.

It isn’t particularly difficult to take Victor’s cock into his mouth—sized as it is—even as he bucks at the contact, wild and earnest even when Piers presses his palm against a soft, quavering thigh to still him.

Victor is too small for that, for difficulty. He wouldn’t choke on his cock even if he takes it all in his mouth as he does now.

No coarse pubic hair—he had never been particularly fond of that particular aspect when it comes to his partners and to oral—and nothing sliding against and down his throat besides spit mixed with droplets of cum. He had never quite liked deepthroating either.

When Piers presses his fingers, still wet with spit, against Victor’s opening, he feels him tense.

Perhaps it isn’t the most comforting of gestures—he doesn’t speak after all—but Piers finds himself rubbing circles into Victor’s inner thigh, palm pressed lightly upon soft flesh and thumb and index finger gently stroking.

At the very least, Victor eventually relaxes enough for him to insert a finger.

Prodding against the warm walls, he feels Victor squirm again, uncomfortable because of the foreign sensation and still breathless because of the continued stimulus on his cock, and he once again strokes his thigh—nails brushing and fingers moving delicately, callouses pushing against tender, unmarred skin.

As he presses another finger in and begins scissoring—index and middle pushing in and out in an easy rhythm not unlike earlier and wet digits spreading and coating a small hole—Piers lifts his mouth from Victor’s cock; presses a kiss to the head of it, tongue flicking briefly at the slit; and then slides his tongue down the length and to the balls, action coaxing another uneven moan from Victor.

He licks at the crease before drawing them into his mouth, saliva wetting and tongue swirling.

Another noise—a call of his name, half-mangled and uneven, ragged, in pitch—as Victor writhes, hands tightly gripping at the sheets, and Piers feels himself tighten further.

He hasn’t touched himself yet, but Victor is so noisy— _so needy_ —and it cuts at him sharply, quickens his breath and his heartbeat.

Piers couldn’t quite help the noise that leaves his lips when Victor calls his name once more, a consequence of his fingers brushing against his prostate.

Pushing once more against the spot, fingertips rubbing rather briefly brushing, earns him another noise and a wetness upon his face and in his hair.

Much like before, Victor doesn’t warn him when he cums. Rather, he’s noisy—unbearably, sweetly so.

At the very least, it doesn’t get into his eyes, both luck and a result of the small volume. Instead, he only feels it trickle down his forehead and cheek as he lifts his mouth and sits back up.

Breathy with skin flushed and dirty, that is how he would describe Victor, how Victor _is_.

Wiping away the cum on his face with the back of his hand—it’s still sticky, but it would do for now until he could shower—Piers almost asks Victor to accompany him, but Victor interrupts before he can.

“I really don’t mind,” Victor repeats, still insistent. “You can fuck me.”

“I shouldn’t. I don’t have any lube.” It isn’t a lie. He truly doesn’t, but he couldn’t quite deny the warmth in the stomach, still curling and tight, or the hardness straining against the fabric of his boxers.

“But do you _want_ to?”

“It’ll hurt.”

“I’ve told you already. I don’t care.” The bed creaks as Victor shifts slightly, pale body moving upon paler sheets and bare legs brushing against Piers’s. “Please…I want you so much.” He pauses, hesitant. “Do you want _me_?”

He doesn’t reply. He _shouldn’t_ reply.

Instead, he only moves—acts—and that is answer enough: trueness and genuineness garbed in silent atrocity.

It is answer enough when he finds himself coating his cock further in spit, his own, in an attempt to alleviate the pain of everything.

It is answer enough when he, hands gripping at white hips, finds himself pushing into a willing and noisy Victor.

It is answer enough when he, unguided thus far, leans forward, dark curtain of hair obscuring them both, and kisses Victor, and feels his affection returned, small tongue once again pushing against his and incisors nicking lightly before retracting.

It is an answer for him when he feels Victor’s legs—dainty and thin and pale with toes curling—wrap around his waist and slender hands press against his chest, neither pulling forward nor pushing away.

When he thrusts into Victor, he’s noisy—neither certain of whether it’s his voice moaning, whining, or if it’s Victor’s nor certain of the pace, uneven and uncertain as it is and carried entirely by them both.

Victor is tight, warm and wet, but he shouldn’t expect differently, not with their earlier activities and his size—small and slender.

He isn’t exceptionally large, but Victor isn’t as a partner should be—he isn’t what he _should_ want—but he continues anyway with Victor following suit, vulgarity, intermingling and sharp hipbones meeting soft thighs.

Voice upon voice, flesh meeting flesh, and lips pressing messily—saliva dripping and names exchanged in a fervor of repetition—against lips.

Pressed against one another as they are and both eager, it isn’t quite as it should be—more akin to a burlesque than anything acceptable, reasonable—but they continue anyway, and finally, he finds himself releasing, cum warm as it seeps from Victor’s opening, with Victor himself having cum earlier, still gasping with voice high.

When he withdraws, Victor whines but complies, legs loosening their hold around his waist.

It shouldn’t be as soft, gentle, as it is when he draws Victor into his lap, messiness staining his clothes further—that isn’t how these sorts of occasions go—but it is.

Piers feels Victor shift, small hands cupping his cheeks tenderly as he presses another kiss against his lips—quick yet sweetly sincere in its entirety—before withdrawing.

“Do you want to stay with me?” Victor asks, voice murmuring and eyes looking into his. His hands, nails lightly brushing, are soft against his skin. As they are now, it would be easy enough to turn away, but he doesn’t.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do,” Victor says simply, not breaking his gaze. They’re hazel brown, near-golden like honey or perhaps earth before first snowfall or during the last day of springtide.

Despite his words, however, Victor explains anyway.

“Do you want to stay with me forever?” he asks, brown earth meeting blue sky. “Do you want me to turn you?”

No needling pleas, no fervent accusations, no ridiculous requests.

Only simple questions, truthful, that he knows the meaning and answer to—moments, beads, in eternity’s band.

A simple reply for simple questions.

“Yes,” Piers says, “I want to stay. I want to stay with you.”

No reply.

Instead, Piers only feels Victor’s hands fall lightly to his shoulders before he presses another kiss to his mouth, closemouthed and chaste as the last, before his lips move, brushing lightly against his skin all the while—mouth to chin to the right side of his neck—as a hand gently lifts his hair, strands dark and held aloft by pale fingers.

Victor presses another kiss to his neck, and he doesn’t hear anything—no heartbeat, no breath. He only feels—a hand upon his shoulder, a slender body against his, and teeth, unnaturally sharp, barely touching skin.

Unlike with the occasions of before, Victor speaks, warns in his own way, and he feels a weight lift from his shoulder before a hand slips into his, lightly grasping and soft as only a child’s could be.

“I won’t leave you,” he says—promises—and his words are simple despite the weight of them, of everything before, now, and forthcoming.

When Victor bites down, swift and sudden, Piers screams, loud and deafening in the silence.

Outside of them—Orpheus serenading and Eurydice listening—the house is empty tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day Victor will get to fuck Piers like I want instead of the other way around, but it's not today unfortunately. I actually had two scene variations planned for that. If Victor tops, it's way more animalistic since he's implied to have grown up in a little religious town, and he was eleven when he got the whole immortal thing. Even reading bodice rippers doesn't mean he "gets" the appeal of sex or the sensual motions. Plus, bodice rippers are rather...aggressive, so it doesn't particularly help. It's actually rather twisted considering his mental state and the whole "eternal child" thing. That detail didn't make it into the work, but some scenes like the Church one gives some implications I think. Victor's a rather ambiguous character if everything is taken together tbh...
> 
> But still, there's a lot revealed about the psychology of the characters in this. Rather Victorian of me but I do love examining the psychological states of the characters through actions and words (even in the less "outwardly artistic" fics I have like the Grimsley/Scottie one) and through what they desire and fear. Piers and Victor are absolutely such major foils for one another in this one. Nothing should be taken entirely at face value.
> 
> Upcoming chapter notes are going to be kinda long as well since I only have so many characters to talk about some things in the work.


	17. The Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit late, but I wanted to finish posting the chapters to that Raihan/Piers/Victor fic first...

He isn’t dead—not in the truest sense of the word anyhow.

Rather, he finds himself going in and out of consciousness—night turning into day and then evening, wholly cyclical—and his body shaking, sweating, sometimes retching, and expelling nearly everything with bowels loosening.

It’s dirty. Everything is dirty.

Even if he couldn’t see—nothing outside of the faint moments of lucidity, eyes blinking slowly, blearily, before closing once—he could feel everything well enough: dirty sheets, wet and stained, and the fluid leaving

Alongside uncertainty itself, that is one of the few certainties he knows.

Warm, warm, warm. It’s too warm until it’s too cold: chilly, frigid, cool.

He couldn’t quite discern everything: night from day, heat from chill, or truth from fantasy.

He hears, memories interspersed with reality, but it isn’t quite right, isn’t what it should be: the chiding voice of his mother—he knows she shouldn’t be alive—intermingled with the baritone of his father and the sweet-tempered, if frequently teary, chime of his sister’s voice, youthfully high instead of the quiet hum he knows now.

Bits and pieces from a foggy mirror, glass cascading, with lines running across the surface like a spider’s thread and he as the unwitting fly, stumbling and blue and buzzing.

He couldn’t quite discern everything. Certainly, he listens when he can—there isn’t much else he could do really—and he feels, but he doesn’t understand, not everything anyhow.

A hand runs through his hair—it’s too delicate, too small, to belong to the Marnie he knows now—and he feels himself lifted up and hears a voice muttering, repeating.

“I won’t leave you,” he hears. “I won’t leave you like he left me.”

Repetitious in meaning and form yet not quite monotonous in tone. It is akin to the wind-up birds he sometimes sees in the antique shop windows around town—singular in purpose and even in the clicking speech.

He doesn’t understand the meaning of it even as he hears the faucet turn, metal creaking and gurgling, or when he feels himself submerged in cool water, basin mostly filled and porcelain cold against cooling flesh.

Soapy hands run through his hair and a scratchy, wet washcloth upon his skin, scrubbing with just enough force to clear away grime and dirt.

Those are the things, the motions, that he faintly remembers before his eyes close again, returning to blackness as night turns once more into day.

Or so he thinks anyway.

He couldn’t quite discern everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is finally winding down to the end which is nice...I might make my notes its own chapter honestly if I can't fit it in in the last one...


	18. The Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all strangers mean well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've hit the end and just in time for the DLC as well. My Pokemon Center Leon plush also arrived today which is nice...

When Piers wakes, garbed in a fresh set of clothes and lying upon newly changed sheets, it is still dark outside—no light peeking in from the crack inbetween the curtains—and Victor, garbed in another set of his pajamas, is in a chair besides the bed. Idly, he notices that the upper two buttons of Victor’s top are loose, shiny metal unbuttoned and scar once again showing, and that the tightness of the drawstring of his bottoms, red lace drawn into a messy bow.

It is a rather odd thing to notice, but he couldn’t quite help it, not with everything thus far.

“I threw away your sheets and clothes. They were too dirty to salvage,” Victor says, eyes gazing intently at him. “Sorry.”

Overly straightforward and an odd choice of subject to begin their conversation with all things considering, but Victor has always been odd, childish in some sense of the word and overly obtuse at times.

“What”—shit, his mouth is dry, almost intolerably so, and his head hurts, pounding—“time is it?”

“Half an hour pass four,” Victor replies. “Marnie and your housemate will be back in a few hours, and we gotta meet them at the airport.”

Victor shifts, leaning forward slightly to rest his arms upon the bed.

“You won’t burst into flames or anything if you go outside,” Victor continues. “That’s all garbage from the movies. You’ll just be a bit sleepy. Maybe near-comatose? I don't really remember what it was like. It's been too long.”

He doesn’t quite know what to say to that really. It’s all too simple, overly mundane, but the alternative wouldn’t be much better in his opinion.

He doesn’t want anything exciting—nothing more fit for the climax of a film than for reality—but the current ambience doesn’t quite fit either: too plain, too mundane, too _ordinary_.

He doesn’t know what he expects—doesn’t know where to begin—but Victor hoists himself onto the bed before he can speak, bedsprings creaking with the movement and knees bumping into his blanketed thighs, and reaches a hand over.

Fingertips caress his cheek before trailing to his neck, brushing away stray strands of hair before settling lightly against his skin.

Victor doesn’t speak even as Piers reaches up and feels at his neck, hand covering Victor’s.

Two clean marks, near-fully healed over, and unlike Victor’s own mesh of scarring.

A silence descends then—no heartbeat and no breath, only the hum of the air conditioner and the passing thrum of cars outside, distant sirens barely audible—as they stay as such, hand upon hand and looking, blue at brown and brown at blue.

Piers breaks the silence first though he doesn’t move.

“What do we do now?”

“Well, what do you want to do?” Victor asks, response contradictorily both a question and an answer.

“I don’t know.” It is a simple, childish answer but at the very least, it is truthful.

Victor hums before replying, “That’s fine. We can always figure it out later. We have time.”

Overly uncomplicated once more but that is what he has come to expect from Victor.

Victor pulls his hand away before moving closer. Piers almost expects another kiss then, but Victor only lifts the covers to settle beside him before drawing them back up and over himself—up to the collarbone.

Another questions comes then, uncomplicated in form yet complex in the nuances.

“Do you want to stay like this for a while?”

Victor, despite his strangeness and his stubbornness, is rather prone to uncertainty.

Piers turns before drawing Victor closer—chest to chest, legs entangling, and chin resting atop brown hair. It isn’t the most comfortable of positions—untied as it is, his hair is everywhere, and Victor has never been one for prolonged contact, situations not initiated by him—but Victor doesn’t move.

“Mmhmm.” It isn’t the most explicit of replies, but it, alongside his actions, carries his meaning well enough. At the very least, Victor doesn’t move away. He only draws in closer, body cool and the implications of that clear enough.

They would figure everything out later.

Perhaps it’s foolish—he should be more concerned with familiarizing himself with everything—but fondness often cultivates foolishness.

Nonetheless, it doesn’t matter as much as it should to him in the moment.

They have time after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We end on The Star arcana which is intentional. We haven't finished the entire journey since Piers as a character is one who is often stilted by his own inability to act. While he does grow during this story, it's rather subtle or even simply "negative growth." He's been jerked out of his ennui rather harshly, but I think adversity (in this case, the emotional and mental kind) is sometimes necessary for character growth.
> 
> I wouldn't consider this a happy ending entirely though. It's more ambiguous honestly. Victor and Piers as characters are both individuals who value appearance and appearance plays a central theme in this story. I think the honesty, the idea of baring one's emotions and thoughts, and the vulnerability of it is a central catalyst for both of their growths. You can almost consider this story a "build-up" to that. I kept a slow pace to mimic Piers's ennui as well. A lot of the chapters often focus on mundane thoughts and ideas as a result. They serve a purpose but this is a "slow build" fic.
> 
> Also, do you notice that Victor is the first person in the fic to ask Piers what he wants to do? It's a rather small detail, but it's integral to understanding the ideas of this story and who he and Piers are as characters. There's little details like that interspersed in this story. Though...you have to consider them together as well, and Victor's character depends on how you view him with these details in mind. Similarly, notice the difference in their markings? There's a lot of implications in the differences.
> 
> Next chapter is merely my end notes since they're too long to fit here.


	19. End Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> End notes for this story since they didn't fit in the 5000 character limit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually working on a tutor/student (teacher/student) Piers/Victor fic since we had discourse on Twitter over that. Hopefully I don't shelve it or get stuck...that's where my age swap Leon/Victor long fic is at right now...it's the prose...
> 
> Please note that since these are end notes, they're not utilizing proper grammar and sentence structure necessarily.

This isn't a "traditional" katabasis like in the myths or even Odyssean in nature (a la Invisible Man from the modernists; even then, the narrator's katabasis in Invisible Man is rather literal at times there since he's in an underground area), but I decided why not? It's my story, so I get to decide what I want to do. The "underground/underworld" would Victor's world, as "off-putting" as it can be, which Piers unwittingly stumbles into through his pursuit of knowledge, though there is no "traditional" anabasis, or "ascent," for either of them anyhow. It isn't "death" that finds them, but simple, the anabasis is one that will not take place unless they find an understanding (which the ending is rather implied to be, eventually anyhow).

The title itself comes from a rather simple play on _The Vampire Chronicles_ 's Claudia and Katabasis ("Descending") as well as the relationship between Piers and Victor. Much like "Claudius's" meaning, "lame," their relationship is an incredibly strained one at times, and Victor himself is a boy of stilted growth in the sense that he never got a chance to grow up or pass traditional adolescence. He is rather abhorrent at times even before the sex scene. Look at the subtext and the world around them. A lot of "loose ends" or idle details can be inferred or add to Victor's character and Piers's inability to not be an oblivious horror movie protagonist. Really, Piers missed like 50 warning signs just before the first 4k word mark. But in his defense, would one really jump to "supernatural creature" as their first guess? Most wouldn't. Don't you think it's weird how Piers's parents were found in an alleyway torn up? I don't think Piers is especially special. He simply was nice at the right time, and honestly, Victor's past has implications of child abuse, and one of the key attributes to that is well, an almost "desire" for kindness. Kindness is what draws him in.

Furthermore, Victor is the "Claudius," or the "Claudia" who "descends" from his metaphorical throne born from years of solitude and the inability to connect with others and back to humanity (sorta) through Piers's unwitting actions. In a way, it's a "corrupted" coming-of-age for Victor but told through Piers's viewpoint, so not much on his own thoughts. But really, if he hadn't been kind during his first meeting, what would have happened? It is a rather lose-lose situation for Piers at times. And Piers himself makes the descent as well. Maybe a little of _Let the Right One In_ (the original movie, not the remake) though I only watched that after finishing this story.

Piers himself also shifts between a "idealistic" and "cynical" perspective. Rather "post-modern" of him really with how he views everything. A lot of implications on how he feels about his friends and how he's "falling behind." Look at how he describes things. Perhaps one could see this as a "coming-of-age" in a way for him as well? Personally, I don't like to dictate how one should view works, but it is a thought to consider.

I didn't do a "direct" adaptation of _The Vampire Chronicles_ with the names replaced and the story rewritten beat for beat because really, at that point, why not just read the original stories themselves? I have never been fond of fanfic that doesn't have the author's own ideas interspersed in. There's also a nip of Orpheus and Eurydice in this with Piers and Victor respectively taking the roles though it isn't a "one for one" for it. The "eternal" musician is one aspect of it. And I guess this is also a spite story because technically, Victor is the aggressor, not Piers.

Also all the stuff going on the background (Gordie unwittingly being a supernatural magnet, Leon may or may not have been attacked by a werewolf, Lance and Raihan, etc.) that never gets resolved is more of my own personal appeal. Really, how Piers know what's going on with them without the story veering radically (more so anyhow) into incoherence? It makes the world feel more fleshed out for me personally since everyone has their own lives to take care of+it plays into the themes and all that. It also adds in Piers as a character. He is designed as a "self-centered coward with issues of ennui and perhaps an undiagnosed mental illness." One of issues at play is possible depression.

There's also a heavy amount of Christian themes going on here, and as always, they're rather blasphemous. Check the numerical symbolism here for example. Similarly, look at how time plays a role in this in how the timeline begins to "blur" with little explicit mention of the days until near the end. Other details like temperature, appearance, and such also play key roles in deciphering Victor's identity before the reveal.

On Victor himself, he is rather ambiguous, isn't he? Is he sincere, albeit going about it with what he knows of the world? Or is he a selfish monster who has taken a liking? Little bit of both? It's human to want after all, but humanity comes with the caveat that one must understand desire and its consequences and act accordingly. A return to humanity does not mean a return to goodness inherently. To return from an animalistic life based solely on going day to day is not something that requires compassion and a virtuous character. He may be portrayed as sympathetic, but he is a murderer. Though, would he have been able to procure a more "humane" way of meals (ie. blood bags like in a lot of vampire media) with his age or would he even want to? Control and the fear of control is another bit of his character. He is a character driven by a fear of intimacy (much like Piers) and by his own desires.

You have hints of Victor's past and implications as well. Compare how his mark looks when placed next to Piers. His is rather jagged compared to the clean one Piers' has. I think that gives a rather large insight into why Victor is as he is, and why he would latch onto Piers+his sincerity. But still, I don't care for the "waifish figure who can do no harm" thing, so he's not "pure." Look at where Piers's headaches take place and where it doesn't as well and how he reacts to them. Piers isn't a "pure" character either. Similarly, look at how Victor talks about his mother and the implications of how he views "mother/father" figures.

Though I wouldn't say the anabasis has taken place fully yet. The ending is rather open in my opinion even if it may seem "wholly" benign. Much like how this work doesn't intentionally go through the entire journey of the major Arcana, their journey together hasn't finished. As characters, I would like to say this is the "final" or nearly so tipping point for progress, an "escape" from the mundane/drudgery. You cannot advance as a person without loss I think.

They foil each other rather well as well too I think—the "dying" man who willingly chooses to stay ignorant and "young" and who cannot act without being acted upon and the eternal boy who knows too much and who wants to grow up and who acts with intent. They're both "pitiful" characters but in rather different ways. Neither can be considered the "classical" archetype of the mythological hero, but they're still protagonists in their own rights.

"Why isn't Piers the vampire?" Because honestly, while his appearance fits, I thought it'd be kinda boring and turn this into almost every other vampire fiction. I think it's more interesting if Victor is the aggressor and monster because it fits into the interplay between knowledge, innocence, and adulthood. And Piers already got to be the big horrifying immoral monster in my "The Year King." This fic is basically the counterpart to that one.

There's a lot more at play, but I rather leave that to the reader to discover/ruminate on. I'm rather fond of literary analysis, and I think it's a fun pastime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do want to do a "Siren and fisherman's boy" AU as well, but my plotting is so slow on that...maybe it'll be a ficlet? And then the Dead Dove DNKB.
> 
> As a final note, I am someone who often subscribes to this quote by Oscar Wilde for art and writing. I think a writer or artist who is unable to even consider, not even create, dark themes or the problematic themes is one who will not grow as well as they can.
> 
> “No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to be read as "one" piece, but I decided to split it up into chapters for convenience's sake since it is a bit long. About 8060 minutes to complete this according to my Word Doc info as well.
> 
> One more fic, and I will get to double digits for Piers/Victor as well...but I'm busy with my next project, so I can't start what I want...hopefully I can finish that one quickly...
> 
> As always, I've written this work with the intent that it can be analyzed according to symbolism, allusions, and all those literary devices. The subtext is also rather important in this I think.
> 
> Also, it is intentional for the timing rather than being an oversight when it comes to Marnie having projects in the summer. Perhaps it was just my school, but we had those.


End file.
